Showtime!
by Joyeee
Summary: At twelve, Alexander already seems to have it all: two very strong parents, lots of companions, and the magnificent stallion that he himself tamed – not to mention extremely bright career prospects. So what's holding up the show?
1. Prologue

**Credits**: Hephaestion's skills in all matters relating to horses are inspired by Steven Pressfield's _Virtues of War_. That book's account of the first time Alexander saw Hephaestion, plus Moon71's comment that it was pretty much "love at first sight," resulted in the inspiration for this story (though it is _not_ based on the book's version of things). Much gratitude to Fredericka for sharing her wonderful knowledge of horseriding - thanks to her, the scenes with horses are much less ridiculous than they otherwise would've been. And I get to say that "no horses were harmed in the making of this fanfic."

**A/N**: The prologue's tone is a little unusual, but please give the story a chance - the rest is in a more normal narrative voice. Happy Father's Day, everyone!

* * *

**Prologue**

Much is said of how Alexander met Bucephalus, his faithful steed throughout his long campaigns. How wild Ox-head was, and how strong; how no man in King Philip's court could mount the great animal until Alexander demanded to try. Even those who took him as no more than a reckless boy at first admitted that he had courage, for he was but twelve at the time, barely tall enough to swing onto the stallion's back. But Alexander quickly proved his presence of mind as well, for he saw that the horse shied from its own shadow, and used this knowledge wisely.

As he galloped back in triumph from that first glorious ride, the cheers rose to heaven. Even fierce King Philip wept with joy, sweeping Alexander proudly into his arms and lifting him high. "Oh my son," he cried, "you must find yourself a more worthy kingdom – Macedon is too small for you!"

Men do not become jealous of horses. So people gladly spread the tale of the magnificent stallion and the brilliant prince, the boy who was to be their commander, and later, their king. (And even later, their Great King. And Pharaoh, and many other titles besides.)

However, history says little of Alexander's early days with the people who would form his closest circle, men who fought for him and conquered with him, men who would afterward inherit his empire.

And history says nothing of Alexander's first meeting with his dearest friend, his "other self."

In truth, it was not so long after Alexander met Bucephalus, son of – well, unfortunately history doesn't keep track of equestrian genealogy, but readers may rest assured that it was a perfectly noble heritage, probably semi-divine. To get back to the matter, yes – it was not so long after Alexander met Bucephalus, progeny of an unquestionably splendid lineage, that he met Hephaestion, son of Amyntor.

And so the tale begins, a few weeks after young Alexander tamed the mighty Bucephalus.


	2. Ch 1: Alexander III of Macedon

**Author's Note:** "Euthymius" means "in good spirits."

P.S. I promise I won't insert non-story A/N's after this, but I must express loads of starry-eyed gratitude to all readers, and especially reviewers; every word brightens my day. (I'm half-blind by now!) I hope the rest of this doesn't disappoint. (But if it does in any way, even just a smidgen, don't hesitate to let me know.)

**Chapter 1: Alexander the Third of Macedon, Tamer of Bucephalus, son of King Philip the Second of Macedon and Queen Olympias of the Molossians of Epirus, Prince and (Highly Probable) Future King**

At the top of the hill they reined in their horses. They did not want to push their steeds any harder, and calling to their friend to slow down had no effect. He was already more than halfway across the plain before them, and they could only watch as the boy (for so they still thought him) urged his great black stallion onward, his golden hair a bright speck in the wide green field.

"Wait, Alexander!" they hollered one last time, squinting in the bright afternoon sunlight. "Where are you going?"

Of course, they were not asking seriously, for they knew there would be no answer. Finally the young men (for so they thought themselves) stopped shouting. A broad-shouldered youth, the first to cease, raked a hand impatiently through his thick, pale tresses. "He's forgotten all about us on that mad beast of his!"

"It's hardly the first time he has his head in the clouds, Philotas," answered the one beside him, watchful eyes and sharp chin under a mop of dark hair. "Why don't _you_ chase him down?"

"Hmph! I'm not as rash as that, Cassander!"

"Well, he's too far now," said a tall youth, showing only mild concern.

"Perdiccas is right," agreed another, his easygoing manner contrasting sharply with his heavily muscled frame.

"It's just as well, Leonnatus," said the last of them. His rough, broad features crinkled in resigned amusement. "Alexander can take care of himself. He'll come back when he's ready."

"Don't you mean when he comes to his senses, Ptolemy?" Philotas jeered.

"He's been affixed to that animal's back ever since he got it," scoffed Cassander, "galloping about all over the countryside like a centaur."

Ptolemy grinned. "Wouldn't you, if you had a stallion like that?"

"Well, I don't fancy _madness_ in my horses," Cassander retorted.

"Speaking of which, that beast is the right steed for Alexander," Philotas snickered. "They're both a little ... different." His tone made the last word clearly unflattering, but a moment later his chest puffed out. "As I tell my men, horse and soldier must be as one in battle!"

The others laughed, having heard too many such comments from him recently to be impressed. "We _know_ you just got assigned your own men, Philotas!" Leonnatus cried.

Philotas colored a little, but pride won out and he lifted his head with a defiant grin; he was, after all, the first of them to achieve officer status in the cavalry. "So I did! And don't you forget it!"

They laughed, for they were still young enough to laugh things off easily – though, to be certain, they saw themselves as men.

"Well, if we're not going to catch up to Alexander we might as well go back," Ptolemy suggested. "The air around the kitchens smelled rather promising when we left."

"I'm feeling a bit hungry myself," said Leonnatus.

"Must be all that extra wrestling practice you squeeze in when the rest of us aren't looking," Perdiccas replied, his placid expression never changing. The others crowed in delight; Perdiccas did not jest often, but his words could hit the mark as sharply as anyone's.

They turned their horses back toward the palace, not upset that they were returning without the prince. As Ptolemy said, Alexander could look after himself very well. And although they only joked about it, they agreed somewhat with Philotas, too, that Alexander was not exactly like everyone else – and not only because he was the prince.

They all knew the history of the Trojan War, but Alexander could practically recite the _Iliad_ by heart. They all enjoyed riding, but Alexander rode faster and farther than any of them cared to, especially now that he had Bucephalus. He could hardly be expected to return with them just to take supper at the usual time, no matter that when they set out together in the early afternoon, they had all noticed the warm fragrance from the kitchens: freshly baking bread, wheat and barley laced with honey just off the comb, as well as other scents just as enticing, if less familiar. King Philip was expecting a guest today, a personal friend from Athens, and knowing that Athenians did not eat much meat, he was turning out the best of Pella's other delicacies: bread, fish and fowl, the finest olive oil. And of course, wine.

It was the last that the youths could appreciate most. Macedonians paid devout tribute to Dionysus, even when circumspect Persian ambassadors visited with their sparse, cautious words and stiff, elaborate bows. Since tonight's banquet was only meant to entertain a friend, there would be plenty of the oldest, strongest vintages, and the young men looked forward to seeing if Leonnatus' drinking capacity had grown as much as his wrestling talent. Then, someone might actually out-drink Philotas, who had more than enough to brag about with his new standing in the army.

Alexander liked attending feasts also. He even looked forward to the formal banquets with generals and foreign ambassadors. His companions supposed this was just as well, since he was the prince and would have to lead councils and negotiations someday. (That did not stop them from thinking it strange, of course.) As for today's more intimate feast, Alexander might regret missing the chance to welcome another personal friend of his father's, but not too much. So his friends raced lightheartedly back, and when Perdiccas and Ptolemy happened to arrive in the stable yard ahead of Philotas – newly appointed cavalry officer – they cheerily kicked off a fresh round of banter.

* * *

Just as his friends had guessed, Alexander (to be precise, Prince Alexander III of Macedon, son of King Philip – and that is only a small part of how he was introduced to everybody he ever met) truly had not heard their shouts. He was entirely focused on his ride. 

(After all, he _was_ just twelve, though soon to be thirteen, no matter that he, like all his friends, thought himself a young man. At that age, even twelve-year-olds who are very precocious princes can forget all their responsibilities for a little while.)

He laughed as he rode, closing his eyes, content just to _feel_ the speed and power of the ride. There was only the wind in his face, the rhythm of Ox-head's powerful strides, and the light of Helios' chariot behind him, pushing him ever eastward. How easy it was to imagine that he was riding noble Xanthus, son of the western wind Zephyr, one of the stallions that bore god-like Achilles to battle and immortality before the legendary walls of Troy!

On they galloped, until finally they halted on a high ledge. It was the farthest point they had yet explored; at this place they always turned back. Alexander took a deep breath.

In the air there was the warmth of the sun and the scent of a new season. Something hummed pleasantly by his ear; a dragonfly flashed past, an iridescent glimmer that sped swiftly into the distance. The earth was blooming with the first gifts of Demeter in the height of her happiness, no less magnificent than the tributes laid out by foreign dignitaries in Pella's royal halls. Before Alexander the land rolled away as far as he could see, rich green carpets adorned with the earliest flowers of summer, crocus and honeysuckle and sweet hyacinth, vying with each other in color and beauty at the feet of tall elms and stately sycamores, and willow-trees bowing low.

So limitless this country seemed. Yet Alexander knew that past these horizons lay so much more, places he had only heard about second-hand. Sparta, proud state of warriors; Thebes, where Alexander's own father was educated, home to the legendary Sacred Band. There was Athens also, center of culture and civilization, home to poets, artists, and philosophers as well as warriors – the only city whose defiance against Macedon had been met with respect, and even admiration, from King Philip.

And beyond the city-states of Hellas, there was a whole world that Alexander had only read about in the great histories. Mystical Egypt, with its age-old legacy of pharaohs and pyramids and the tides of the Nile. Vast Persia, glittering in gold and jewels, awash with strange spices and pungent perfumes, hundreds of cities and satrapies under the rule of one Great King. And beyond Persia, past exotic lands as yet only imagined: the Encircling Ocean – blue and endless as Macedon's summer skies.

Suddenly, Alexander noticed how quiet it was.

Of course he knew that he had left his companions behind a while ago, but only now did he really become conscious of it.

Bucephalus' ear twitched. Alexander swatted the offending insect away and patted the sleek, strong neck. It was approaching time for supper. His own stomach was starting to growl, but his old tutor Leonidas had drilled in too much Spartan discipline for him to be overly concerned about that. Still, there was Bucephalus to think of. Alexander wished he had an apple for his horse - the kind that was streaked red and gold. Bucephalus liked those best.

He looked toward the inviting fields before him. Someday he would explore that eastern horizon, but soon Bucephalus would want his evening meal.

"Ready to go back, Ox-head?"

He had pitched his voice too softly for the wind to carry it anywhere; the land remained unaffected in its slow, quiet rhythm. But Bucephalus' ear was close enough. As if in reply, the stallion turned smartly and set off, speeding within moments to a gallop. Helios' chariot shone on them all the way back.

* * *

It was not Alexander who missed supper that night, but Philip's anticipated guests. Word came that Amyntor was unexpectedly delayed in leaving Athens. At this news, Philip's one good eye flashed, but he remained composed as the messenger told him that Amyntor was sure to arrive by next morning, and that his show of horses would go on tomorrow as planned. Philip even laughed heartily when the runner relayed the last part of Amyntor's message, word for word: "I respectfully remind King Philip of his wager that his best can outperform mine. I have no doubt the loser will pay up quickly and honorably." 

From palace talk, it was easy to learn that Amyntor bred horses on a large estate some distance from Athens, well enough to provide many of Philip's best cavalry mounts. However, most of Amyntor's business was in the city itself. What that business was, neither Alexander nor his companions knew exactly, but they were all excited about the show that the king's friend had organized (and not only because it got most of them out of half a day's duty). In a small, noisy gaggle after supper, they chatted away about the pending festivities, the riding party of that afternoon now joined by others of Alexander's circle – Nearchus, Harpalus, and Seleucus, as well as a few of the companions' younger brothers.

"Does Amyntor mean to make a present of his horses to the king?" Leonnatus wondered, the slight slur in his speech ample proof that he was already done with his ninth cup of undiluted wine.

"Not that I've heard of. But they have some sort of bet going on," replied Harpalus, who had his legs propped casually over thick cushions. Due to a heavy limp, he never joined in his friends' more strenuous activities, but one would never guess he thought much of his handicap from his easy self-assurance. What he lacked in mobility he made up in sleek confidence, and with a few honeyed words, he could attract the attention of a bright pair of eyes as well as any of them.

"A bet on the horses?" Cassander raised his eyebrows. "What kind of bet?"

"I overheard some fellow officers saying they're going to race their best stallions," Philotas announced importantly.

"A race!" cried Nicanor, one of the smaller boys. He was one of Cassander's brothers, but aside from a few surface similarities, one could hardly tell. It seemed Nicanor had inherited Cassander's share of enthusiasm, while Cassander, even at Nicanor's age, had always been a bit of a brooder.

"Race them?" Perdiccas looked skeptical. "Our arena isn't really big enough for a good horse race."

"At least they're not elephants," Seleucus put in, grinning in anticipation of the laughter that followed.

"You _would_ wish to race elephants, Seleucus!" Nearchus whooped. By far Seleucus was the most interested in foreign oddities – especially elephants. They often joked about how strange a sight it would be: quick, wiry Seleucus astride one of those lumbering giants. Barrel-chested Nearchus seemed the better match, but he laughed off the suggestion. "After all," he would say, "a charging elephant isn't likely to have a much smoother gait than a charging stallion." They both rode horses well enough, however, and only duty had kept them from the excursion that afternoon.

"Maybe they'll use the field just outside the arena," Ptolemy guessed, reaching around Perdiccas to snatch a string of grapes from the plates being taken back to the kitchens.

"The field where Alexander first rode Bucephalus?" asked little Hector, Philotas' youngest brother, and the youngest of all the group.

"That's right," said Ptolemy.

Cassander glanced at the prince, dark eyes glittering. "Alexander, do you know anything about the bet? Surely your father must have told you something."

"Not really," Alexander casually replied, choosing not to acknowledge the ill-concealed spite behind Cassander's question. Cassander had a knack for such double-sided comments, words that allowed him to explain it all away as a compliment should anyone actually take offense, but so arch and pointed as to leave the true intent quite obvious.

Alexander supposed he should be thankful that resentment had not yet found a sharper outlet than Cassander's verbal jabs. He was aware of how others, or at least their parents, saw him. And he knew even better the power that parents could wield. Some of his companions – Erygius, Laomedon, and Cassander's other brother Iollas – at least did not try to force insincere friendship, content just to be acquaintances to appease their parents' wishes. And some of them were honestly his friends. However, except for a few younger brothers like Hector and Nicanor, most of them were older than Alexander by at least four or five years. And, as he astutely perceived, they were all from families who possessed either high rank or his parents' favor, or both.

As for Cassander's question, Alexander regretted not asking his father more about this particular visitor, but not too much. Philip had only mentioned him casually, and told Alexander nothing about bets or races. Alexander did not mind it; since he had shown his father that he was ready to take on the world by taming Bucephalus, their relationship had become better than ever before. After all, this visitor was just a personal friend, no one over whom the young prince should be especially concerned.

By now Philotas and Leonnatus were too tipsy to notice, but the rest exchanged glances. It was unsettling whenever Alexander quieted down like that, especially if the conversation touched on either of his parents. Ptolemy and Seleucus shot irritated glares at Cassander, who just shrugged contemptuously and lifted his cup for another drink.

"Well!" Perdiccas declared, his voice uncharacteristically loud, "I doubt any horse in the world can beat your Bucephalus."

Alexander looked up. Then he smiled, brilliantly. "No, I suppose not."

Cassander rolled his eyes, but no one saw it since he had his cup raised to his lips.

Hector and Nicanor gazed at Alexander in innocent veneration. "I hope someday I can ride like you, Alexander!" Nicanor murmured wistfully.

Cassander managed to snort and keep drinking his wine at the same time. Alexander ignored him, grinning instead at the smaller boy. "I can take you for a ride on Bucephalus," he offered gallantly.

Nicanor gasped. "Really, Alexander?"

"Yes, and you too, Hector."

The two little boys cheered gleefully. Alexander beamed, seeming not to notice the others' looks of amusement – mostly fond, but also a couple that were quite disdainful.

"Beat Bucephalus!" Leonnatus exclaimed, the wine still holding him back several lines in the conversation. "As well try to outfight Achilles!"

"Or out-shriek Philotas the other day," smirked Harpalus, "when he started polishing his new officer's gear, only to be attacked by a spider of Titanic proportions."

"It was a shout of fury," Philotas drawled, mellowed by the wine and quite willing to overlook the jibe from one who would never touch any army equipment.

Ptolemy lifted his voice to resemble Philotas' strident baritone. "It jumped all over me!"

"You all only _wish_ to have someone jump all over _you_!" Philotas leered, raising his goblet again in the middle of mock indignation and boisterous retorts.

"Huh?" Nicanor blinked. "Why would anyone want to be jumped on?"

"That would be silly." Hector assumed his best frown as he stated the obvious; older brothers were supposed to _know_ these things. "That would _hurt_."

Both boys looked to Alexander for an explanation. He seemed to be the only person who heard them amid the escalating (and ever more bewildering) boasts of the others.

Alexander smiled. "Never mind them. When should I take you riding?"

Dazzled, the boys immediately put their baffling older brothers out of their minds, even as the verbal competition around them intensified into violent threats and fists banging on tables. (In Pella, such minor disturbances at informal banquets were quite common anyway.)

The night drew on without any announcement of King Philip's friend. But it did not occupy them much. The show would take place tomorrow afternoon as planned, and that was enough (especially for such action-minded young men as they were).

Despite all the earlier talk of drinking contests, they stopped relatively early. Most of them still had duties tomorrow morning. And Philotas was going to be busy all day with his section, since (as he pointed out with much satisfaction) they were standing guard at the show. The rest arranged to meet after lunch and parted in wine-warmed good humor, all threats forgiven (if not enitrely forgotten) as usual.

* * *

By breakfast-time, Amyntor's horses had certainly arrived. Anyone passing by the stables could see them as his grooms began the day's work, smart and efficient despite their nighttime arrival. But Amyntor himself, having gone to see Philip early on, made no appearance all morning. As the companions gathered one by one during lunch, their duties finished for the day, Amyntor was still ensconced in Philip's study along with Philip's two best generals, Parmenion and Antipater. 

Being the son of the latter, Cassander was the one to reveal this information. He was rather smug about it, too (especially since Philotas, son of the former, was on guard and unable to play the all-knowing general's son this time). Since that was the only news about Amyntor, the group decided to go to the stables, to see what they might of the horses.

Euthymius, Philip's stable master, presided over the yard with unwonted approval as Amyntor's grooms bustled about with hay and brushes and buckets of water, but all in all there was not much to see. Still, this was as good a place as any to dawdle. The companions stopped at the edge of the enclosure, chatting at leisure and watching as the grooms scrubbed down the horses on the other side of the fence.

"Here now!" shouted a deep, jovial voice. "What are you boys plotting?"

It was Cleitus, one of Philip's favorite guards and brother of Alexander's erstwhile nursemaid. With him was Craterus, another well-respected officer.

Tall and burly, Craterus was quite the professional in anything to do with the army. Beside Cleitus he looked somewhat stern. But then, anyone would appear quiet and serious next to Cleitus, tough and dashing and renowned for all sorts of prowess on the battlefield – and off. The younger men gladly welcomed them.

"We heard so much about the horses, we thought we'd take an early look," Leonnatus explained.

Craterus raised an eyebrow and allowed a hint of a smile. "Well, you fine young future officers, what do you think of them?"

Cassander quickly answered, "They look like good cavalry horses."

"How so?"

"Broad backs," Leonnatus replied.

"Shiny coats," added Ptolemy.

"That's right," Craterus agreed. "If you were up close what would you look for?"

"Bright eyes!"

"Good gums!"

"Thick horns on the hooves!"

The officers laughed at the barrage of answers. "So then," Cleitus declared, "the question that's _really_ worth a barrel of wine from Crete: how do they compare to the steeds of our good King Philip?"

The young men fell silent, each hoping another would answer.

"Well," Perdiccas finally spoke up, "if you really want to know, you'd have to ride one."

Cleitus heartily clapped Perdiccas on the back. "Exactly! Must see how it behaves under pressure - that's the real test!" he exclaimed. "Congratulations, boys, you know your horses!"

Craterus saw fit to express his approval with a nod, then glanced into the yard. "Seems Amyntor's grooms are a good lot, too," he remarked. "You don't usually see Euthymius so . . . calm, when his stables have so many guests."

Euthymius' thick arms were crossed, his feet planted firmly in a wide, belligerent stance, and his features twisted in a perpetual glower.

The others nodded. "He's definitely in one of his better moods today," Nearchus agreed.

"I remember when the last Persian guests arrived," Leonnatus added. "He would've kicked out the head groom if he didn't take the customs of hospitality so seriously!"

"'Zeus Xeinos, help me keep my temper with these bumbling idiots!'" quoted Ptolemy, doing a most impassioned (and therefore very good) impression of Euthymius' outrage, complete with hands clawing wildly in the air. The group dissolved in laughter.

"Look, look," Cleitus prodded the others, still chortling. "One of Amyntor's grooms is going to talk to him."

Intrigued by this new development, they managed to stifle their mirth, though Craterus did wonder aloud why the grooms permitted the smallest, youngest one of them to be their representative. They watched intently as the boy, taller than Alexander but not even the height of Euthymius' chest, walked right up to the brawny stable master. With Euthymius towering over him, the boy's slim, strong build appeared almost sprite-like, and the companions relished how odd it was to see him persist, completely undaunted by the stable master's giant frame, fierce shock of red hair, and even fiercer scowl.

Interest deepened into mystification as Euthymius' scowl slowly diminished (though it never disappeared entirely, to be sure). Then Euthymius shook his head and, throwing his arms high in a gesture that denoted a scathing opinion of insolent children, signaled that the boy should follow him.

"He's not going to thrash him or something, is he?" Cleitus whispered urgently. "It's one of _Amyntor's_ grooms!"

Craterus rolled his eyes and the others smiled, knowing it was a rhetorical question. However much the visiting grooms might aggravate him, Euthymius never treated them _that_ harshly. Still, he certainly never shrank from meting out such punishment to his own staff when it was provoked.

The companions were not the only ones who watched the two disappear into the storerooms. A few of the grooms abandoned all pretenses of working and exchanged looks of concern.

When Euthymius reemerged so did the boy, staggering, weighed down by a basket so large that his arms could barely reach around it enough to hold it up.

The spectators found themselves torn between disbelief and delight. The boy was grinning widely, and the basket was filled with –

"_Apples?_" Cleitus exclaimed.

Craterus let out a short, incredulous chuckle.

"He got _apples_," Leonnatus said in awe.

"From _Euthymius_," Perdiccas breathed.

The rest of them just gaped. Even Nearchus and Harpalus, the most difficult to impress of them all, were staring in sheer wonder.

The other grooms quickly came to help relieve their young colleague's load, calling their thanks to Euthymius. He waved them off brusquely and roared across the yard that they were all hopeless troublemakers, especially that impertinent little urchin who dared to make the request in the first place. Laughing, the grooms returned to the horses to hand out the treats; the boy came close enough for the companions to get a better look at him.

Harpalus gave a long, low whistle. Some of the others glanced at him, amused, but no one was about to argue with the sentiment.

"Huh!" The glint of mischief returned to Cleitus' eyes. "If I know anything about the arrows of Eros – and I do, extremely well – that boy will soon be charming more than apples, and not only from grumpy stable masters!"

Craterus rolled his eyes again and groaned. "Cleitus, the boy looks all of thirteen."

"Right, but in a few years . . ." Cleitus winked. "Which reminds me, lads, I arranged to go to the show with quite the charmer, so I'll be taking my leave now."

"I'm off too," said Craterus. "Got a few things to take care of before the show."

Cleitus muttered something under his breath about how dull it was to devote every single thought to the business of the army, but threw them a last daredevil grin. "Stay out of trouble, boys!"

Craterus shook his head. "Look who's talking!"

* * *

Later, Alexander would sorely regret his absence when Euthymius deigned to award apples, and not only because it was a small miracle just for the gruff stable master to form a halfway decent opinion of visiting grooms. Instead Alexander had to hear it from his friends because (being a well-behaved boy and a caring son as well as a responsible prince) he had taken lunch with his mother. 

Olympias was indeed beautiful, at times almost smoldering with a strength much like that of her snakes, supple and strangely magnetic. She was commanding, too. No one who ever saw her wondered why Philip had married her, though some did marvel that the king kept her (not knowing that in such matters, kings are not always so different from ordinary men).

Ever a queen, she managed to be regal even as she started fussing over Alexander's appearance. Soon she was looming over him with hot irons.

"Mother, it's not a state visit," Alexander protested. Although he did not mind how his hair would look afterward, Alexander always found it difficult to sit still.

"_Nooo._" Her tone rose and fell on that single syllable, her mocking sing-song ringing with bitter resentment. "It's _only_ a personal friend of your father's."

Alexander felt like heaving a sigh, but knew better.

"Not two months after you tame Bucephalus, and what should he do but invite another horse-breeder? Does he need more horses already? Surely he must have bought all he needed the last time!"

"Mother, it's only a show," Alexander soothed. "They're not for sale."

"Only a show," she repeated sharply. "That's right, only a show. This Amyntor, he isn't even a professional breeder. It's his _hobby_!" She made the word sound like a curse. "Unless Poseidon sired his colts and he shows us Pegasus reborn tomorrow, we won't see anything that we haven't seen before! As usual, Philip's wasting his time when he should be concentrating on matters of state."

Alexander spoke frequently with soldiers and knew that horses were closely tied to matters of state – matters of conquest. But he kept quiet, knowing his mother would not understand that grittier side of his future. It was just like how she spoke of Achilles – as his ancestor, as a god and a hero, but never quite as a man in battle.

"Now then, my love, I know _you_ wouldn't dawdle, as your father is doing," Olympias continued, her tone at once praising and imperious. "So diligently you read your histories, so intently you practice with weapons. But after all, that's the difference, isn't it, when one's the son of a god?" She giggled, something she did only in front of Alexander. It was a peculiar thing, a sound entirely hers, the peals starting low but climbing to higher notes so that at the end she was laughing, carefree as a little girl.

Then her voice returned to its usual low timbre. It resonated now like a wash of sunlight in the height of summer, warmth that could permeate one's bones and drown out all cares, leaving a man languid and content on a lazy afternoon. "Divine blood. Higher aspirations. Superior abilities. You'll achieve so much, my dear, my love. So very, very much."

With the lilt of her words, Alexander almost forgot the heat so close to his scalp.

He thought of Bucephalus, and smiled. He remembered the many rides, from that first day with the crowd cheering his victory to yesterday morning, when he outstripped everyone else without even trying, and found himself alone with Bucephalus, ready to explore those promising fields. Except, he had no food for his horse.

Alexander did not feel lonely – or, if he did, he did not recognize it – but an idea suddenly struck him. "Mother," he said, swept up by sudden inspiration, "In the future, I'm going to be one of the men, as well as their leader. I'll do the same things they do, undergo the same hardships."

She paused and turned to face him, her expression puzzled but approving. "Of course. And you'll do it better than all of them."

Despite himself, Alexander lost a little of his enthusiasm. He had not meant it like that. He would do it so he could prove himself, yes, but not to be _better_ than anyone.

Well, that too – after all, bragging rights are never a bad thing to have.

But he would share in the hardships of his men so that . . . so that even as he strove for uncommon endurance, he might also know what it was to be truly hungry or thirsty or tired, like any common man. So that he would feel the same things they did, and so they would be more connected to him – so they would understand that he was not just some bright, remote figurehead to flatter for favors. So they would come to truly love him.

He could not put it into words yet, not quite, so he did not try to explain. Instead he just declared, very resolutely, "I'll be a good leader, mother."

She smiled brilliantly. "Of course! Not just good, but great."

Her voice sharpened as she returned her attention to the irons. "Greater than your father, for certain. Your taming Bucephalus was enough of a show; why he must host someone from _Athens_ of all places, insubordinate rabble-rousers that they are; Philip ought to have more sense than _that_, even reeling with wine as he usually is, and dallying with those manipulative, status-seeking, gold-grasping whor-"

Alexander winced as she roughly caught up another lock of hair. As tiny as the reaction was, his mother noticed; suddenly the irons were laid aside and she was crouching in front of Alexander, anxious and even a little apologetic, holding his face gently in her fine, smooth hands. The fragrance of crushed flowers wafted to his nose, at once fainter and more clingy than the scent of the oils she used for him. Her eyes glowed softly as they met his. "My son," she crooned. "So strong, so beautiful. My son."

Alexander smiled a little to reassure his mother that he was fine. She smoothed his hair back tenderly, taking infinite care to arrange certain strands just so.

Then she turned away and began rummaging through a chest. "Now, where's that gold-embroidered chiton? I just had it made; white, with gold borders. You can wear it with that deep purple cloak I gave you last time – I'll have a servant bring it from your rooms. And a golden clasp for your cloak . . . hmmm, maybe a gold belt – not too large, wouldn't want the look to be gaudy now, would we? But certainly you must wear clothes befitting a prince – no more of Leonidas' nonsense! At least your hair already looks _wonderful_, dear, absolutely marvelous, just like spun gold; we'll just use some of this oil, and then a touch of this new scent– "

With his mother's back turned, Alexander felt safe enough to heave that sigh he had been thinking about earlier. Silently, of course.

"Oh, if the girls have misplaced it I'll have them flogged to shre– Ah! Here it is. Now I can prepare you for the show properly."

She stood up to her full height, the garment clutched in her hands and a radiant smile on her face. "You'll be magnificent, my little godling. Absolutely magnificent – a prince in every way."

_last revised 12 September 2006_


	3. Ch 2: Hephaestion

**Chapter 2: Hephaestion**

**A/N**: "Aristomedes" means "thinking of the best."

Again, many many thanks to Fredericka, whose contributions have made this apple-loads better!

Fredericka did point out to me that Macedonian cavalry did not generally use shields until after 280 BC; the Macedonians didn't have anything like ensigns that I know of; etc. Artistic license taken!

* * *

Considering that they were to preside over the show, King Philip and his visiting friend were rather late. In fact, the entire royal family was late. (Through no fault of Alexander's, of course. He had been ready long before Olympias' servant rushed back to report that Philip had finally left his study, and, hearing footsteps approaching at last, threw the door open so hard that the servant's nose was sore for days.)

Thus (thanks entirely to the queen), the royal couple arrived together: Philip with his guest and his generals, Olympias with her two children. Despite the maddening delay, Alexander's excitement returned at the crowd's enthusiastic welcome. A pity, he thought, that his older half-brother could not attend; although he was not aware of things the way everyone else was, Arrhidaeus did appreciate pageantry.

And what pageantry – the arena was packed, Philip's soldiers and their families drawn out by the warming weather and the promise of spectacle. It was the same festive field where Alexander had tamed Bucephalus. Today, however, there was an addition to the usual bright pennants: a ring of tall staffs set into the riding ground close to its outer edge, unadorned except for two shorter poles standing opposite each other, one near the gate, the other in front of the royal box. The tips of the pair sported clusters of long ribbons, blue and silver, red and gold. Even the gods seemed to acknowledge the holiday, for it was the brightest day yet of the summer.

Draped over the front of the royal box's low wooden wall, a large banner waved proudly in the wind, its bold artwork depicting a golden lion rearing on a field of royal purple. It was Alexander's favorite. He had long since decided that when he was King, the lion would be his emblem, for secretly he thought the image embodied him perfectly: a strong, magnificent creature, ever in the moment of action, poised to take on any foe – and triumph.

Philip introduced Amyntor as an old friend, the owner of the horses they were about to see. The ovation was decidedly modest. Among the spectators, many scoffed, "Well, that _is_ how an Athenian would look," "how an Athenian would put on airs." Only a few thought he seemed a decent sort, despite his origins. Whatever the case, they gave him no more than a glance before focusing back on the gate through which the horses would enter (or on outdoing each other's boasts of battlefield exploits).

Under the royal pavilion, Amyntor had a seat of honor to the right of the king. At Philip's other side sat Olympias, her posture regally straight even with Alexander's little sister, Cleopatra, squirming in her lap. From time to time she absently rearranged the flowers in the girl's hair, but mostly her attention was on the crowd and Alexander. If Cleopatra managed it right, Olympias might just think her distracting enough to let her slip away for some real fun in the crowd.

Alexander caught sight of his friends nearby. Several of them waved, including the little boys. Seleucus had lifted Hector onto his shoulders (Hector's older brother being occupied as guard leader), while Perdiccas had hoisted up Nicanor (_his_ older brother having stalled until Perdiccas stepped in). Cleitus was there too, with someone hanging on his arm as usual, while Craterus steadfastly turned a blind eye to their salacious flirting. Alexander waved back, almost laughing to see Philotas, older-brother-on-duty, standing quite close to his non-officer friends despite all his talk last night about being posted in a "strategic location." And it was a good place, after all, for they were close to the royal box.

Like his friends, Alexander knew that Parmenion and Antipater had met with his father and Amyntor this morning (thanks to the servant with the sore nose). The involvement of his father's best generals suggested that Amyntor was more than a mere Athenian businessman with a horse-breeding hobby, but this complexity only raised him in Alexander's esteem. As they settled in their seats, he listened closely to the two men's conversation.

Yet they talked only about the show – the arena preparation, the stable conditions, and so forth – as if they did not already have the entire morning to discuss these trivialities.

Whatever he was, Amyntor certainly seemed a busy man. Alexander could not remember him ever visiting before. Still, he was not too occupied to notice the curiosity of a boy, even during a lively chat with the king, and met Alexander's curious gaze with a genial smile.

"You must trust your staff very much," Philip was saying. "All day they've been left to themselves."

"My riding master oversaw the arena preparation," replied Amyntor. "He's head trainer as well, and designed the drill you'll see today. Very reliable, if a bit stern."

"I remember him from when I visited your estate – what's it been now – fifteen years ago!" Philip chuckled. "Stern, indeed! But it's the same with my stable master, though 'stern' doesn't quite do him justice." He pointed out a towering figure nearby whose watchful gaze roved constantly, threatening dire punishment for any overlooked detail. "Euthymius insists on overseeing the care of every steed, even those of visiting nobles! Says they don't pay attention to the details, that the horses deserve better. You should have seen him when Alexander declared _he_ would tame Bucephalus!"

Cleopatra giggled, tearing the last petal off a flower she had plucked from her hair. "His eyes bulged, and his face grew all red, just like his beard! 'Course, Alexander didn't notice. Off he went on the big black horse, a-l-l-l-l the way across the field!"

"I've heard of it, Prince Alexander," Amyntor said warmly. "A fine rider you must be, to tame such a stallion."

Alexander smiled. "I think we ... understood one another."

For a moment – no more than that – Philip and Olympias shared the same proud expression.

Amyntor nodded. "Such understanding is rare, even in the most talented horsemen."

"Understanding?" Philip snorted. "Command, more like. In battle, a soldier needs his horse's absolute obedience. And true understanding – that's hard enough even between men!"

"Particularly for men," Olympias noted icily.

Amyntor chuckled before Philip could retort. "Seems so among those I work with. If it weren't for the grooms, Sire, I couldn't breed horses anymore, and I'd be very sorry to give it up! You'd lose a good line of cavalry mounts, too."

"You've managed it all so far; you won't be getting out of anything!" Philip replied – further confirming Alexander's suspicions about Amyntor's importance, despite his father's light tone. "I'm sure you and your men are up to it. In fact, I'm expecting to see some fine horsemanship today, as well as fine horses."

Amyntor allowed a slight smile. But it caught Alexander's attention. It was more in his eyes than anything else, and carried a trace of something curiously ... tender.

He seemed about to say something, but just then, the horns sounded.

The show was finally beginning!

Across from the royal box, the wide wooden gates swung open. In the lead was a splendid grey stallion, bearing a broad-shouldered man with an iron-grey beard and an air of firm authority. Behind them the rest of the horses trotted in, each ridden by another of Amyntor's retinue. Parading in pairs, they made an impressive sight indeed, the riders sitting straight and calm, the horses with their manes combed and their coats shining in health and strength. (Alexander did note with satisfaction, however, that none compared to Bucephalus.)

Instead of carrying riders, the last pair drew a small chariot, making a total of seventeen horses. The bay on the right was a fine steed, but the one on the left was truly stunning: a white stallion of superb carriage, strong and lively, with a coat that shimmered like liquid silver in the sun.

However, it was not the horses that captured Alexander's attention, but the boy who drove them.

Alexander had attended many shows, but had never seen anyone so young participate. Why, he could not be much more than Alexander's age. Yet he seemed completely at ease, there on the field among grooms who were all significantly older – and surely much more experienced. Despite the spectators' doubtful muttering as they took note of him, he remained unruffled, serenely driving the chariot onward as the riders lined up to begin the performance. Alexander heard Cleitus yelling over the crowd – something about impertinence, and how it was Euthymius and the ... apples? ... all over again. Looking across, he was puzzled to see his friends grinning, and Euthymius himself reacting to their amusement with merely a dismissive sweep of his arm.

"Amyntor," Philip chortled, "are you running short of staff? That's your riding master in the lead, isn't it? And the boy! You've either gone mad or bribed the gods, to present us with this child of a horse-breaker! How old is he?"

"Just turned thirteen." Amyntor seemed oddly distracted.

"A thirteen-year-old charioteer?" Philip smirked.

The boy took his place in line right next to the riding master – it seemed as if he would play a central role.

At this, the spectators no longer disapproved of his presence; it must be a jest. Snickers arose all around, while Alexander's friends positively burst in hilarity.

However, their laughter was somehow different. But when Alexander realized what it was, it only perplexed him more. Youth was certainly no guarantee of sympathy from his friends; quite the opposite, in fact. Yet they were actually encouraging the boy, egging him on. Even Craterus looked pleasantly amused! Alexander would have to ask them about it later.

"Well, I suppose it's not impossible," Philip smiled indulgently. "After all, Alexander's only twelve, and he tamed Bucephalus. So then, let's begin!"

Amyntor signaled to the riders, then cleared his throat. "Sire, I meant to tell y–"

"Alexander will be thirteen in less than a month," Olympias interrupted. Her voice carried above the noise of the crowd like an archer's warning shot.

"So he will." Philip's brows wrinkled, but he quickly resumed an affable expression. "Still, Amyntor, it's a show! Euthymius allows a few boys to participate in the training, but they learn as much as the horses do from the older grooms. He'd never let a boy exercise a horse by himself – much less perform! I'd like to see what smart little tricks that _child_ can coax out of the stallions!"

"A child can be very clever," Olympias interjected. "Often more clever than his elders."

Philip did not bother to hide his displeasure this time. "Even the brightest child needs guidance," he said coldly, narrowing his good eye at his wife. "Practical guidance. The kind that's actually worth something, that can prepare him for the world – instead of blowing up his pride beyond the gods' forbearance."

"Better to have proud ambitions than to putter around the backwoods like sheep, playing host to riff-raff" – Olympias glanced airily at Amyntor – "who like nothing better than to fleece willing fools."

Philip raised his eyebrows.

Alexander's stillness was like that of a coiled spring.

Suddenly Philip chuckled. He shot Amyntor a sardonic look, as if sharing a jest. "Women," he snorted.

Olympias did not deign to reply, just lifted her head even higher.

Of course, Amyntor had long since decided to leave whatever he meant to say until later. Philip's thoughts were clearly occupied. His gaze, like his wife's, was dark and remote, and his casual posture oddly paralleled her haughty bearing.

Alexander suppressed a frown. Both his parents meant well for him, if not exactly for each other. Occasionally he indulged in a fleeting wish for them to get along. But young as he was, he was no fool, and expected the sun to stop shining first.

No matter. Someday, he would be his own man. In the future, no one could argue about him right over his head. In the future, he could decide things for himself. And in the future, he could give every event its proper attention – by arriving on time, for one thing. (Especially when his men were waiting. He would never make them wait for him – not _that_ long, no, never!)

But now was not the time to ponder all that. There was a show to be enjoyed.

To his surprise, he found it easy to forget his parents' latest squabble. Amyntor's riding master had led all the riders into a moving circle, just inside the ring of standing poles. Alexander leaned forward in his seat, and soon forgot all his cares about late royal arrivals and bickering parents.

The riders went counterclockwise, while the boy drove the chariot clockwise using their steeds as his own border. Faster and faster, until all the horses were galloping. It was not a flashy move, but Alexander understood the precision of the rings inscribed by the chariot's wheels, and the coordination needed for the horses to speed by each other so closely without colliding.

Once, twice – three times the riding master and the boy passed each other in front of the royal box. A few strides later, they simultaneously turned inward, their tracks marking a cross on the field. The chariot rumbled over the center of the arena a split second before the first steed in the line galloped across it, and the crowd sighed in relief at the narrowly-avoided collision.

The riders traced three more circles, this time outside the ring of poles. The horses and chariot had switched directions, and the chariot now outlined the outer border.

Though the audience no longer thought the boy so out of place, they began to feel bored. Soldiers (especially Macedonian soldiers) tired quickly of anything repetitive – an accident would have appealed to them more than the steady competence they now saw. Some made a show of leaning back. "Of _course_ that's all a bunch of Athenians can do," they concluded, while others chatted ostentatiously about past shows or their own steeds. Never mind that both the patron gods of Athens, Poseidon and Athena, were also deities of horses; never mind the Athenian tradition of honoring horses and horsemanship. That was all antiquated history, considering what Athenians had become – flighty idealists and complacent snobs, who could only sneer in vain as Macedon's power grew.

Cleitus was gleefully baiting Euthymius again. Alexander overheard him jesting that some strange wine must have built up in the stable master over the years and was only now releasing its sedative effect. Glancing over, he was surprised, seeing exactly what Cleitus meant. Euthymius' scowl was ... _gone_. In fact, his expression as he intently watched the show was one of unreserved – and entirely unprecedented – _approval_.

It was so remarkable that Alexander nearly missed what happened next. Just as he turned back to the field, the boy in the chariot made his move.

Slouchers in the audience suddenly sat up straight; gasps and shrieks arose as the boy sprang up, nimbly leaping from the speeding chariot onto the bay. Before the spectators could recover from their alarm, he darted his hand toward the white stallion's harness, releasing it from the chariot. It began to pull ahead, but before it could get away the boy leaned over and grasped its mane; quicker than thought he swung over, his feet barely skimming the ground as he switched between the two galloping steeds. The bay continued its course toward the gate where grooms were waiting to catch its bridle, while the boy raced on – back straight, shoulders square, riding as if he began the show thus – safe and triumphant astride the white stallion!

For a few seconds, there was only awed silence.

Then the crowd exploded with a great roar of acclaim!

By then Alexander was already on his feet, having sprung from his chair and bounded forward to press against the front of the royal box – eyes wide, breath caught, trying to sort out everything that had happened, even more eager to see everything that was still happening. He glimpsed the boy's face as the stallion dashed by: utterly concentrated, with a light in his eyes that bespoke such intensity, such joy! – a joy so deep that it made Alexander's own spirits fly.

The rest of the audience slowly settled back. (This time, nobody said anything about Athenians or other horse shows.)

But Alexander was not going to risk missing a single moment more. He remained standing at the front of the royal box, his hands fisted in the banner draped over the low wall, his attention fixed on the boy as the latter joined the rest of the riders.

The chariot stunt alone was proof enough of the youth's connection with the horses; only steeds with great confidence in the rider could have performed it so smoothly. A first-rate horseman himself, Alexander could discern even more now that the boy was simply riding. There was a duality in his technique – relaxed, never forcing anything from his mount, yet fully focused, so that together the pair was always ready to make a tight turn or change pace. Without having to think consciously about it, Alexander sensed in every movement that for this boy, the principles of working with his stallion had long since become second nature, innate – to win the creature's cooperation, rather than imposing his will on an animal with a spirit of its own.

In single file, the riders circled the field three times, once inside the ring of poles; next, outside them; and finally weaving in and out between them. Then, the riding master and the boy wheeled inward, each leading half of the riders to meet in the middle. When the lines had combined into two rows of eight, they turned their horses together to trot forward side-by-side – a move often used in army drills. The spectators applauded the clever adaptation.

The horses began to move into another circle, but when it was half completed the riding master and the boy each turned sharply around a pole, cantered across the arena, and turned again, followed by the rest. The line of horses lengthened until they outlined a star on the field. Even the girls who usually took no interest in these things were enchanted – at Alexander's side Cleopatra stopped tearing petals off the flowers from her hair and clapped exuberantly at the sight. Then the star split in half to form two sections, each four wide and two deep, wheeling around each other. Being soldiers, the majority of the audience instantly recognized the pattern – miniature versions of the standard cavalry formation – and renewed their cheering.

After parting to march toward the royal box, the formations stopped smartly, one on each side of the pole decked with red and gold ribbons. The riding master came forward from one unit while the boy rode out from the other. In unison, the two of them saluted the royal family.

Philip answered by raising his arm; the audience bellowed in hearty approval.

The riding master finished his salute with a flourish. At some invisible sign from their riders, all the horses bowed their heads in recognition of the applause. Alexander grinned. He had recently taught Bucephalus that trick.

The horses formed back into a circle just within the ring of poles. With the riding master and the boy opposite each other, they completed three more circuits, galloping faster than ever before. The audience kept up an appreciative murmur.

Suddenly, screams rang throughout the arena. Opposite the royal box, the riding master had just yanked a ribboned pole from the ground and sent it speeding through the air, straight at the banner of the rearing lion.

Alexander was standing right behind it.

Yet, it never occurred to him that he might be in any danger. He just watched all the more intently, reflexively clutching the banner's folds a little tighter in his excitement, never thinking to jump back – and quite oblivious to his mother's shriek of alarm.

Despite the sudden uproar, the well-schooled horses never broke stride. And just before it would have hit the banner – _just_ before it would have pierced directly through the lion's heart – the boy on the white stallion reached up, and seized the flying pole!

It had come so close that Alexander heard the ribbons fluttering. The banner suddenly waved, and the lion seemed to spring, nodding in regal acknowledgement of its young champion.

Alexander's heart leaped. Unconsciously he gasped, his eyes alight with admiration, his lips parted in a small, mesmerized smile.

The boy had to lean slightly; the pole was heavy for him. But he simply followed its motion, using its momentum to set it spinning in his hand, bringing it down by his side. Blue and silver whirled above him, and then beside him; his stallion trusted him so implicitly that it just galloped on despite the ribbons rustling right by its head.

Alexander's heart was pounding.

It had all happened in a breath, a flash, a blink of an eye. One moment the pole was hurtling ever closer; the next, the boy had deflected it, and transformed it into a bright shield in his hand. Even after Alexander's mother belatedly wrenched him back from the seeming peril, he was still smiling, breathless with wonder – he hardly felt her grip, swept up as he was in the splendor of the performance.

The crowd's screams turned into wild cheers. Immediately after catching the ribboned pole, the boy pulled up its counterpart and cast it across the field to the riding master, who caught it and set it spinning also. As the ribbons whirled, blue and silver on one side of the arena, red and gold on the other, the two of them hooked their reins on their saddlecloths, then each pulled a plain pole from the ground. The cheering intensified, for though riding hands-free was a "common" feat among soldiers, it was astonishing to see a boy that young ride thus – especially occupied as he was, having to simulate his own cavalry gear!

With the ribbons swirling beside them as shields, the riding master and the boy tilted the plain staffs, as if in a charge. Quickly the other riders followed suit, pulling up the rest of the poles and canting them forward. By now the allusion was impossible to miss: they were soldiers, and these horses were bred for war, steady and strong, undaunted by the clamor of shouting voices or the whistle of speeding spears.

Somewhere in the crowd, a lone voice sang out a few notes. (Probably Cleitus – not many voices could carry like that.)

It was a well-known tune among the soldiers, and others quickly joined in. Within moments, the paean was swelling on the breeze, ringing throughout the arena with all the might of warriors' voices.

For the first time, the riders acknowledged their audience; the closest spectators could glimpse them smiling slightly. Yet despite his skill, the boy was much younger than his fellows after all, and could not resist returning the audience's tribute. Laughing in delight, he raised the long pole high. The crowd answered with a resounding roar, while the buoyant melody continued – clear, and deep, and joyous.

At this unexpected change, the riding master shot the youth a reproving frown; his presentation was designed to be safe as well as impressive. A moment later the boy sobered and lowered the pole, looking quite chagrined at himself. But the audience's approval was overwhelming, and the riding master knew quite well the exhilaration of a show; he acknowledged the youth's apology with a good-natured shake of his head.

With the song reverberating all around them, the riders completed their final circle around the field and maneuvered the horses into a single wedge. Still canting the poles, they charged toward the royal box. Suddenly, as one, they halted, pulling the poles back to upright positions. Thus the show ended in perfect time to the paean's last triumphant chorus.

The crowd hushed after that, eager to see their king's reaction. While the other riders held their mounts in quiet deference, the stable master cantered to the front, accompanied by the boy. He handed his ribboned staff to the youth, who brought it together with his own and bowed his head in imitation of a standard bearer, holding the poles together like a squadron's signal staff, their ribbons streaming merrily in the breeze. Though he had to use both hands to grasp all three poles together, leaving the reins hooked, his stallion stayed perfectly still as it calmly awaited his next signal.

The riding master saluted the royal family with his plain staff, just as an officer would with his spear. Philip stood, clapping heartily, and the crowd followed his example with thunderous applause.

In the midst of deafening cheers, the riders wheeled and exited as they had entered, two abreast, with the riding master and the boy leading.

Though he was no stranger to well-trained horses and spectacular maneuvers himself, even Philip was stunned. "Gods, Amyntor!" he exclaimed. "Are they bewitched? I never saw such steeds! To perform so well, with so much noise, and things shooting around in the air – they could go to war for Ares himself!"

Amyntor smiled. "That's the idea, isn't it?"

A wide grin broke across Philip's face. "So it is! You've really outdone yourself this time, my friend! Have your men come back on the field for their garlands. But get your riding master up here in the box, and the little one too; they both deserve some special recognition!"

* * *

On the whole, Alexander's companions were delighted to see the "impertinent little urchin" in this new role – not to mention the sight of Euthymius actually _smiling_, as the show ended. Their cheers were, perhaps, the loudest of all (especially with the likes of Cleitus and Leonnatus among them).

"A pity the little one's just a groom, and a foreign one at that!" Cleitus chuckled. "Otherwise he'd fit right in with our cavalry!"

It already grated on Philotas' nerves that the riders – mere grooms and trainers, after all – were honored with a paean. He was very proud of the Companion Cavalry, its members culled from the country's oldest, noblest families to form Macedon's elite fighting force (of which he was the newest junior officer). Hearing Cleitus now, he looked to Craterus, who was always quick to uphold the Cavalry's integrity, but to his astonishment Craterus was nodding along.

He had to protest, and burst out with the only weakness he could think of. "They were just playing with a bunch of _ribbons_!"

"The ribbons were a bit silly," Craterus concurred, "but the poles themselves were no trifle."

"Not at all, judging from how they held them," Cleitus agreed. "In fact, for the boy the long pole is probably similar to a xyston."

"A _xyston_!" Nicanor exclaimed from atop Perdiccas' shoulders.

"You mean the long spears?" Hector's voice floated down from above Seleucus.

"Yes, the long lances we carry as Companions," answered Craterus.

"Ohhhhh!" The little boys' eyes brightened even more.

"I want him do it again!" Nicanor exclaimed.

"Which part?" Hector asked. "Jumping out of the chariot? That was _my_ favorite part! And wasn't it great when they formed the star, and when they all charged together? And the ribbons were nice, I thought!" Cleitus elbowed Craterus, smirking. The others laughed while Hector continued blithely to Nicanor, "Which part was _your_ favorite?"

Nicanor hesitated. "All of it!" he finally decided. "The horses are so clever, and so much happened - you couldn't possibly see everything just watching it once, it was all so fast!"

"Not to mention _pretty_," Cassander sneered, losing all enthusiasm just like Philotas had. But Nicanor seemed too excited to pay attention to these few words, so he continued, "Absurd, really – ribbons would get horribly tangled in an actual fight! Besides, it's been _ages_ since we've seen chariots in battle!"

"The Persians have chariots," remarked Seleucus.

Philotas and Cassander both groaned.

"That chariot trick was no standard cavalry move, to be sure," Cleitus laughed. Yet for once, the gleam in his eyes was quite serious. "Still, I'd welcome someone who could do that into my squadron, any day!"

* * *

Even Olympias had not been unmoved, but now she sat back, determined to be downright displeased. The pole had been shooting toward her son! (No matter that in hindsight, even she could see that its path lay somewhat to Alexander's side, and could never pierce the royal box).

The spectators were still cheering madly. Having crushed the flowers that should have been in her hair into a scraggly bouquet, Cleopatra gleefully tossed it down to the arena, her long tresses already tangled again. Olympias gave a small, exasperated sigh.

She let Cleopatra scamper off with the maids – one less over-excited family member to worry about, here in the public eye. Coolly she glanced at her husband, who was blustering for the servants to hurry with the garlands.

What was it all, in essence, but a bunch of acrobatic tricks? Really, she was surrounded by children, and not just those she bore. At least Alexander was sitting quietly at her side, sensible and composed.

Alexander was sitting quietly, but if Olympias had bent just a little, she would have seen his smile, small and far-off and almost blissfully dreamy – quite the opposite of her vaunted sensible composure.

In his mind he was replaying everything: the galloping horses, the leap to the chariot, the catching of the poles and the whirling of the ribbons. And most vividly of all, he remembered the keen, deep joy on the young rider's face – just after he vaulted onto the white stallion, and again when the crowd honored him with the paean.

Someday Alexander would charge like that into battle on Bucephalus, eager and glad and glorious – borne up by the strength and the love of his men.

He could hardly wait to meet the riders. His father fully approved of his chatting with soldiers, and surely would not mind if he spoke with Amyntor's staff – especially the boy. The way he rode, he must have heard of Xenophon's work _On Horsemanship_, written only a few years before Alexander was born, but already considered in many circles to be the definitive authority on its subject. There was so much they could talk about based only on that short treatise. Furthermore, some of the same principles were in Xenophon's longer works, including the _Anabasis_ and _Cyropaedia_ – which, next to the _Iliad_, were Alexander's absolute favorite texts, full of sharp insights and stirring examples of great leadership. Even if the boy did not know the writings, Alexander could tell him all about them – why, Alexander could even show him Bucephalus; skittish as the stallion was, he was sure Bucephalus would instantly like this boy. Then maybe they could even go riding together; never mind that the boy was just a groom ...

His mother's hand descended upon his shoulder, startling him back to the present. Amyntor was returning, with the show's two star riders behind him.

Not waiting to merely follow his parents' example, Alexander was the first to rise in greeting.

* * *

As important as this introduction was, Amyntor had personally gone to escort the riding master and the boy.

Meeting the royal family this way was ... unconventional, not exactly what he had planned. But the middle of the night, when they had arrived, was no time for introductions. And the delay in Athens had been unavoidable, since certain men there had learned he was visiting Pella.

The peace with Athens was merely a fragile truce, its maintenance requiring maneuvers no less complex than battlefield tactics – as shown in this morning's discussion between himself, Philip, and the generals. The orator Demosthenes was railing more violently than ever against Macedon and its King, and Amyntor admitted freely that Macedonian views of Athenians were not entirely unfounded. Sometimes he would have liked nothing better than to wring the necks of certain hypocrites in Athens. Unfortunately, his work required him to be civil with most of those double-dealers.

Nevertheless, he stood firmly by his counsel to Philip – peace, so long as Macedonian honor suffered no more than the verbal slander of narrow-minded elitists. Zeus be praised for the few men on both sides who truly had principles and, like Philip, were willing to overlook petty slights.

On a personal note, Amyntor also thanked the gods for his estate, some miles away from Athens. Although he often took his son to visit the city, to show him its magnificent traditions as well as its darker undercurrents, he and his wife did not want the lad raised amid so much duplicity. But frequently Amyntor had to stay in the city for weeks; his son's upbringing was rather strange, all that time spent with just his mother, his pedagogue, and the staff. Particularly the stable staff – good men, but hardly the sort of people who would be his future peers. Still, Amyntor would have felt even less comfortable with his family in Pella, far away from his care. His role in Philip's network was not exactly something to announce to the world, and it would have hurt his son's prospects to let him grow up here while it was known that his father worked in Athens.

Of course, now there was the problem of introducing his son to the Macedonian court, where he must make his own fortune someday. Someday soon, for several of Amyntor's less agreeable Athenian "colleagues" now suspected his Macedonian ties, and Athens was no longer quite safe.

So the show had fit in perfectly with Amyntor's plans – even the participation of such an unusually young rider. Aside from entertainment, he had organized it partly to dispel the idea that Athenians were all talk, no action. Of course, that was not all it would take . . .

Outside the gate, the riding master was giving a presumably stern lecture to his youngest protégé. But his severity did not last; he finished with an affectionate chuckle.

The boy immediately noticed Amyntor's approach, and ran up with a bright grin. Amyntor smiled proudly, his cares melting away as he led his men back into the arena. This time, the crowd welcomed the boy wholeheartedly, and cheered when he followed Amyntor along with the riding master up to the royal box.

The show was a grand success, and Philip was no snoot about doing everything by the book. As unconventional as it was, Amyntor supposed this sort of introduction might be just fine after all.

* * *

Meeting these two members of Amyntor's retinue, Alexander was as eager to rise to the occasion as during introductions to foreign dignitaries. Having focused almost solely on the boy during the show, Alexander now made a rapid study of the riding master, and could guess why Amyntor valued him so highly. He looked tough as a bull, but there was patience and a certain rough honesty about him. Somewhat like Euthymius, actually (when he was not glaring people down).

"Your majesties," Amyntor began, "I present my riding master, Aristomedes of Athens, three-time winner of the annual races there in his youth – an achievement that made him an informal protégé of Xenophon, before the latter's exile to Scillus."

Alexander's eyes widened. No wonder the boy rode as he did; his instructor had studied with Xenophon himself!

"Impressive!" Philip laughed. "Though, considering what we've just seen, I suppose we shouldn't be that surprised. Excellent drill all around, outstanding coordination – and of course, creativity! There's a feast tonight; you'll have a place there, and a handsome prize!"

"I am deeply honored, Sire," Aristomedes replied. "However, I must admit that the more . . . creative moves were not my idea." With a wry smile, he glanced toward his young counterpart.

"Well! Even more impressive!" Philip chuckled, turning to the boy with a friendly grin. "So then, Amyntor, who is this young horse-tamer?"

Amyntor stepped up beside the youth. Alexander noticed it again – that strange, tender smile had returned.

"This –" Amyntor said quietly, laying a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder, "This is my son. Hephaestion."

_last revised 08 September 2012_


	4. Ch 3: The Best

**A/N:** A** _stadion_** is about 600 feet, or around 160 meters.

I realize now it takes me minor eras to revise and update – sorry! Thanks again to Fredericka for her patient, thoughtful beta work. Remaining glitches are mine. Anyway, now the story continues right where Ch.2 ended, a moment after Amyntor revealed, "This is my son. Hephaestion."

**Chapter 3: The Best **

The noise of the crowd continued, jovial and rowdy all around the field; the pennants above kept snapping pleasantly in the breeze, vivid splashes of color against a backdrop of golden-white clouds and summer-blue sky.

Yet, for the moment, all this had faded out of focus. The rest of the arena was relegated to mere background, awash in a sunlit haze, while the clamor of the audience was only a distant drone in Alexander's ears. Here inside the royal box, there was only mute, astonished stillness, like the effect of some sudden enchantment.

The boy shifted a little, trying to stand even straighter than before. "Joy to you, Your Majesties," he said brightly, breaking the spell of silence. "And . . . joy to you, Prince Alexander."

When the royal family just kept staring at him, he glanced up hesitantly at his father. Amyntor gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

It took several more seconds, but Alexander was the first to recover. "Joy to you, Hephaestion," he said, feeling slightly breathless, hoping his voice sounded much firmer than it felt – and unexpectedly pleased, when Hephaestion darted him a small, fleeting smile in return.

It was just one surprise after another today!

Philip started laughing. "Zeus' thunderbolts, Amyntor! You've got the entire arena believing your son's a commoner! I've seen hopeful fathers in droves, introducing their sons at banquets, at festivals, even during the lulls in state assemblies, and to hear them talk you'd think their sons were little demigods. I say, this is the first time anyone has allowed me to mistake his son for a member of the staff!" He shook his head incredulously. "Why didn't you just introduce him in court the usual way?"

Amyntor smiled. "It was late when we arrived. And we were otherwise occupied this morning."

"Never mind the formal introduction!" Philip exclaimed. "What about riding with the rest of your men? The show was obviously planned around his participation in it, no matter when you'd bring him to an official audience with us."

Olympias' astonishment had quickly turned into irritation, and now she tilted her chin up contemptuously. Philip actually seemed to think this amusing! Well, it was no surprise that this foreigner thought he could play insolent pranks, taking them all for uncouth boors, but he was dreadfully mistaken. The Macedonian court could conduct itself with manners and propriety as much as any old city-state, and whatever her own grievances against Philip, Olympias would not stand idly by while anyone made a fool of her husband, the King.

"Your son shouldn't be taking part in the show at all," she admonished, but that was just the start. "As my husband just said, you've got all the important people thinking he's a mere _groom_. And what else _could_ they think?" Her words quickened, gaining momentum. "You not only give the impression that he's little more than a servant, you introduce him here at the riding grounds, when we have a perfectly serviceable great hall for such things. And if you introduced him _there_, you could – well, I'm certain you could clothe him better, for one. Surely you must be able to provide him with some finer robes, of higher quality than _that_ – it's serves for riding, I suppose, but it's much too plain for a court appearance, especially considering it's his _first_! And he and the riding master both could do without those plain little satchels at their sides; they didn't have them during the performance, did they? What a strange addition to their garb, just before they come to meet _us_!" Her lips curled up in a glittering semblance of a smile. "Or are they the latest high fashion in Athens?"

"Oh, nothing like that, Your Majesty." Amyntor spoke as mildly as if the queen had just commented on the pleasant weather. "They usually have those when working, to hold a few odds and ends – treats for the horses and such. And they had already started tending to their mounts when I went to escort them."

Philip shot him an inscrutable glance. "How very practical."

Amyntor responded with equanimity. "Indeed, Sire." He offered Olympias an amiable smile. "Far from any sign of disrespect, say, rather, that they forgot to take them off, overwhelmed by the honor of an audience with the royal family."

Olympias arched her brows at Amyntor's persistent calm. "Well, I suppose it wouldn't matter if you _really_ were just introducing staff. But this is your _son_! Really, it's not _proper_ this way!" she insisted. "Especially when he's all dusty and mussed up after a ride!"

Philip's gaze flashed knowingly. "Any other man would give a fortune to have his son sitting with us. Instead, you give him a horse in the arena."

Olympias frowned austerely. "Look, there's a smudge on his chiton."

"Even the horse, he had to win for himself," Philip grinned suddenly, "by jumping out of a speeding chariot!"

"He'll have a hard enough time here with his accent – he won't be able to string two words together without people knowing he's from _Athens_. And now you've gone and introduced him in this – this _outlandish_ fashion!"

"You couldn't do this anywhere else, not Thebes, _certainly_ not Athens as it is now . . ."

"In any case, at least, you're considered a friend of the _king_. You're not doing your son, or yourself, any justice!"

"What an entrance into court here at Pella!"

"This is hardly the way to make a good first impression!"

Alexander's parents often spoke thus, as if absolutely deaf to each other. But right now Alexander did not mind. In fact, he was barely listening, and for once he could not bring himself to agree with his mother, not in the slightest.

The great legends – most of all, his beloved _Iliad_ – were full of fleet-footed champions and horse-taming heroes. Hephaestion had just proved himself worthy of such praise – the very words sung by Homer about Achilles, about Patroclus, about all those extraordinary, legendary men. Even now, Hephaestion's dark curls were ruffled by the wind and glinted in the sun; the flush of exertion had not yet faded from his cheeks, and in his eyes there remained a glimmer of that light, so intense, so _alive_, that Alexander had noticed earlier.

The accent, the satchel, and even the chiton with its faint smudge only added to the effect. In Alexander's view, this boy might as well have sprung directly from the verses of Homer.

When their parents had begun talking over their heads – specifically, when the queen had begun lecturing about court etiquette – Hephaestion's smile had disappeared. He had lowered his gaze, deferential but guarded, as if he had expected an unfavorable reception all along. Alexander almost started forward, though he had no idea what he might say or do; he wanted Hephaestion to look up again, to see that not everyone shared his mother's opinion.

Strangely enough, a moment later Hephaestion glanced up, incidentally meeting Alexander's gaze. Even more strangely, while he had not looked truly unnerved by the queen's rebuke, he appeared quite taken aback to find Alexander's gaze upon him.

It occurred to Alexander that any lingering surprise in his expression might look all too similar to his mother's disdainful shock. Quickly, he offered a friendly smile.

Hephaestion blinked, seeming uncertain what to make of it. But before either of them could say anything, Alexander's parents had reached another verbal draw, and Alexander's father stepped forward.

Philip had not yet decided whether it was laughable or disturbing that his wife had just said everything that his oldest, staunchest army veterans might say. Yet Amyntor's composure proved that he already knew Philip's own conclusions about the introduction.

If ever there was a court that welcomed skill of any kind – from any place in the world – it was Philip's court at Pella. No matter how his soldiers might grumble (though never in his hearing!), especially at his singular indulgence toward Athens, he felt that his creation of a place that welcomed all talent, regardless of the individuals' origins, was as worthy of pride as a victory in war.

Besides, apart from such serious concerns, what better way to be won over than entertainment! And now it was time to turn the joke on everyone else. He gave Amyntor a conspiratorial smirk.

"Well, little Amyntoros, you've hardly made a _bad_ impression," he chuckled, pointedly ignoring his wife's sharp glare. "Come, Amyntor! Let's make it known just who this young horse-tamer is!"

* * *

"_What?_" bellowed Craterus. "He's the man's _son_?" 

Throughout the arena, a rumble of incredulous shock echoed his sentiments. But its tone soon softened, fading to vague muttering. And before long, a fresh cheer broke forth.

Cleitus grinned, long since recovered from the surprise. "Well, at least if we ever get around to war with Athens, there's a chance our opponents won't _all_ be mincing pansies."

"It's – it's just not _done_ that way!" Craterus spluttered indignantly. "It's good to ride well, of course, but no self-respecting man of any standing would allow his children to muck about the stables all day, and he certainly wouldn't let an entire arena of people think his son is a mere _groom_!"

Nerachus shrugged. "We did sort of take it for granted that the lad was only a groom."

"We're not exactly to blame," protested Cassander. "When my father took _me_ to meet the king, it was at a huge banquet. Everybody knew who I was before the first course was over."

Craterus let the comment pass, while Cleitus almost laughed, reminded of the countless starry-eyed sons introduced at such banquets, whose names never really left an impression even _before_ the wine started passing around.

But Philotas chimed in too. "Same with me, only it was a state dinner!"

"Even I got a better introduction on my first visit," Harpalus remarked lightly.

"Exactly," Philotas added. "He might've been limping, but at least people knew who he was!"

Nicanor looked down from atop Perdiccas' shoulders with wide, innocent eyes. "But we _do_ know who he is."

Cassander snorted. "Harpalus? Of course; you'd have to be really dim not to –"

"Not Harpalus," protested Nicanor. He pointed admiringly toward the royal box and said the name of Amyntor's son. Or rather, he made an earnest effort.

Cassander snorted, not only because Nicanor had stumbled over the foreign name – wondering, not for the first time, if a boy who was so easily awed could truly be his full-blooded brother.

But the others smiled, amused. "That's right – Hephaestion," Seleucus called up encouragingly, enunciating just a little.

Nicanor frowned anxiously at his mistake. But then Hector declared, "It's a strange name, isn't it?" and the others chuckled in agreement.

"It might be a family name," Perdiccas suggested.

"Or it could be based on Hephaestus, god of the forge," said Ptolemy. "But maybe something like Bellerophon would suit that boy better – _and_ trip more easily from the tongue!"

"Bellerophon?" Hector asked.

"Athena gave him the golden bridle, to tame Pegasus!" Nicanor declared, glad of this chance to redeem himself.

"Oh! That _would_ be very nice, wouldn't it?" Hector exclaimed. "_He_'s from Athena's city. And he's got the perfect horse for the story, too!"

The others laughed at the little boys' enthusiasm, except for Cassander and Philotas, who shook their heads in disgust as only older brothers can.

And of course, Craterus still disapproved, severely. Cleitus cheerily elbowed him. "Come on. Any Athenian who's not just chattering all day is worth a second look, right?"

Craterus resolutely maintained his scowl. "It's just not _proper_!"

* * *

The crowd applauded everyone receiving a garland, but when Amyntor's son was beckoned forward and Philip himself set the wreath on the boy's head, they cheered the loudest of all. 

Before the applause faded, Olympias spoke up, her voice suddenly soft. "Dear husband, I heard you made a wager with your friend – on a race, I believe?"

Philip's gaze flicked over to her. "So I did." He wondered which loose-lipped servant he should reassign this time. "But it was a passing thought; we haven't even set a day for it yet."

Olympias smiled indulgently. "Why don't you have the race right now? Here's an eager audience already warmed up, primed to see something _truly_ magnificent. And what could be more magnificent in this arena than a contest featuring the fine stallions of their own King Philip!"

Philip raised an eyebrow. "It was a private wager. And," he turned pleasantly to Amyntor, "I wouldn't want to be accused of taking advantage, since your horses have already been running!"

Olympias' smile widened. "Why, aren't you underestimating your friend? And after you proclaimed his horses worthy of – which god did you say – Ares? Come now, obviously they've been bred for battle, and we all know battles last hours, even days. Surely the show was merely a hint of their true abilities. Isn't that so, Amyntor?"

Amyntor did not need the shrewdness he had honed in Athens to sense the queen's hostility. In any case, he knew better than to get dragged into a quarrel between husband and wife. (Especially husband and wife who happened to be royalty. _Especially_ when that royal husband and royal wife happened to be Philip and Olympias.) He gave an absolutely neutral answer. "At your Majesties' pleasure."

But that was enough for Olympias. "Well, it's settled then!" Her voice assumed a hypnotic rhythm. "Your best, against the King's best."

That was the wager, word for word. Philip decided he should just reassign Olympias' entire staff.

Before anyone could get a word in edgewise, Olympias continued, shooting a glittering glance at Amyntor's son even as she spoke to the father. "Your son was quite the star of the show. I suppose he'll be the one riding for you, Amyntor?"

"Give the boy a rest!" Philip motioned for the servants to bring another chair. "He's more than earned a place up here with us – unless you'd really rather send him back out there, Amyntor."

Though he had spoken to Amyntor his stare remained on Olympias, his exasperation a clear sign of opposition to her wishes, whatever they were. Amyntor hesitated.

Between Philip and Olympias, no neutral answer was possible.

But before he could conjure a good excuse, Hephaestion turned to him. "Let me race, Father?" His low tone was edged with a certain urgency.

Amyntor's first instinct was to recommend Aristomedes instead. He had seen Olympias' steely gaze fixed on Hephaestion as Philip awarded him the wreath. Even abroad, she was notorious for her fierce pride in her son – the prince. Amyntor knew that Hephaestion would, by far, prefer another ride to sitting around the king and queen, being on tenterhooks about his every move, every word. No matter how well Amyntor had prepared him, he could hardly be expected to feel welcome, finding himself in the midst of their crossfire so soon after his introduction!

Hephaestion was watching him intently for his answer – and so were Philip and Olympias. Amyntor sighed. His son must get used to court sooner or later. Not to mention, his participation in the race seemed exactly what Olympias _wanted_ . . .

"I'll ride, too, Father!"

All eyes turned to Alexander.

"A race of the best, isn't it?" Alexander asked, smiling, determined. "So Hephaestion will ride the white stallion, and I'll ride Bucephalus!"

Amyntor watched as Hephaestion's initial surprise rapidly gave way to wariness. Amyntor felt slightly reassured – at least Hephaestion sensed that competing against royalty was no game.

But then, in his son's eyes there arose a spark of curiosity, too. Amyntor understood why, though he did not share the sentiment. Alexander seemed so ... _eager_ ...

Olympias was as astounded as anyone at her son's declaration, but only because he seemed to have divined her thoughts. She had been planning to name him as Philip's rider. No other horse could possibly compare to his Bucephalus, just as no other person could ever compare with her Alexander. Seeing him now – so strong, so confident, so firmly holding his father's gaze – she felt a swell of pride. Already she believed – she _knew_ – that he would triumph. Yes, her son would win, and the people's adoration would once again be solely his.

Philip's gaze was measuring, evaluating. But Alexander's bright confidence never wavered. Indeed, he smiled wider at his father, and was blithe enough then to turn that smile on Amyntor and his son.

Philip stood. "Euthymius! Bring out Bucephalus!"

* * *

King Philip strode to the center of the arena. In a booming voice, he announced that the day's events were not yet over, that there was to be a race. "Of the best!" he chortled, and the crowd was very pleased that the riders would be none other than Amyntor's son and their own beloved prince. 

The arena itself was too small for a race. After consulting briefly with Euthymius, Philip proclaimed the course, from the center of the arena through the grounds outside. In the hilly land surrounding the stadium, there was a narrow pass about a stadion from the gate. Two clusters of trees stood across it, dividing it into three gaps. The ground of the gap in the middle sloped up sharply, but those on the sides were much lower, quite safe for riding.

Beyond that, after another three or four stadions, was a grove of almond trees. Whoever returned first with a branch from that grove would be the victor.

Bent as the course was, with the trees further obscuring the view, the audience could not watch the entire race. Still, they welcomed the idea of the almond branch as proof of the outcome – fitting as well as practical. As the first flowers to bud each spring, almond blossoms symbolized hope and new beginnings, and now the grove was sure to be in full bloom. The poets of stuffy old Athens could have chosen no better prize for these young competitors!

* * *

Aristomedes needed no sign to know that Amyntor wanted to speak with Hephaestion before the race. He was already on his way to retrieve Hephaestion's stallion. However, for once the reliability of his men brought Amyntor no comfort. 

The gods could be cruel in their irony. He had prayed so often for these people's cheers to be awarded to his son. Yet now they provoked only apprehension.

Amyntor took his son aside.

"Hephaestion," he began.

Hephaestion simply waited, earnest, attentive. But Amyntor could not think how he should continue. In a paltry few seconds, how could he ever explain the dangers of competing against royalty, of racing the king and queen's _son_, prince and most likely heir to the throne – of risking the displeasure of either Philip or Olympias? (Or, may all the gods forbid, the displeasure of _both_!)

Suddenly, Hephaestion smiled. Comprehension suffused his features. "I'll be careful, Father."

Amyntor paused. To his surprise, that look on his son's face was enough to ease his anxiety. Somewhat. With an effort, he reminded himself that it was not for nothing he had taken Hephaestion to Athens so often, that despite his frequent absences from home, he had taken all possible care to ensure his son's preparation for the future.

He shook his head wryly. "May Athene smile upon you," he murmured.

The sudden ovation caused both of them to turn. Walking side by side, Euthymius and Aristomedes were leading the horses in.

* * *

Alexander's stallion was truly magnificent. Spirit in every line of its body, power in every move. If Hephaestion had not known it already, he would have realized it with his first glance at Bucephalus: the race would not be easy to win. 

Not that he was set on winning.

His father often said that the finest rhetoric could conceal the worst intentions, especially when used by those in power. So when the prince had volunteered to race, he naturally recalled his father's cautions about people of rank, how their status allowed them to break promises without fear of punishment – how deceptive and competitive a court full of such men could be. Yet, since his father was adamant that he should not follow his footsteps to work in one state for the interests of another, Hephaestion was to seek his fortune in just such a court.

However, despite many warnings about royalty, Hephaestion's father always spoke well of Alexander. If any of the stories were true, life in Macedon might be tolerable, but something in Hephaestion still rebelled against accepting it all. Alexander was a prince. He had every reason to be conceited and spoiled. Anyway, why should his father tell him anything bad about Alexander if his future depended so much on the prince's favor?

So Hephaestion had come to Pella, expecting nothing more than a chance to scout out this foreign city where he would have to start life anew, away from his family and Aristomedes – everyone he knew and loved. Already he was starting to resent the place. While trying to find out more about the palace grounds that morning, everybody he spoke to had immediately eyed him with disdain or derision, or even ignored him altogether. Indeed, Queen Olympias had hit the mark about certain things – like his accent. Euthymius, for all his gruffness, was the only one who had not judged him for it.

Thanks to the gods that his father had agreed so readily when he first asked to participate in the show! It was the only part of the visit he had looked forward to – and it was even more fun than he had imagined, for the audience truly liked the performance! Even in his highest hopes he had never dreamed of such an honor as the gift of the paean.

Of course, what followed was not so fun. Knowing how pivotal the introduction was, he was not very eager to meet the royal family. He wanted to make his parents proud, but at the same time, he could not help feeling unsettled whenever he was reminded that his future depended, most likely, on getting along with the prince. Though he was determined to fulfill his parents' hopes, he had not quite decided yet whether _he_ wanted the prince's approval.

Not that it mattered. And victory in this race mattered just as little. Even if Alexander were to ride a three-legged pony, Hephaestion was quite willing just to make a decent show of effort and let the prince win.

But Alexander seemed to _mean_ it, about racing.

Although Hephaestion had heard so much about the prince, the actual meeting still surprised him, somehow. He had been reluctant to believe in most of the stories, neat little anecdotes that made Alexander more like a child-hero from some epic legend than a living, breathing boy. He was even rumored to be the son of a god! And if he was truly so clever and talented, that just made it easier for him to be arrogant, even cruel. The succession of Macedonian kings almost depended on such traits.

Yet, standing there in the royal box, finally facing Alexander not five steps away, Hephaestion suddenly found himself understanding why Pella's citizens, from ordinary grooms to high-ranking soldiers, adored the prince so – speaking of him as of a young god: golden hair and luminous eyes, quick, intelligent, overflowing with energy, and poised beyond his years. It was not only appearances either, for Alexander had proved himself a "good horseman" – words of high praise indeed, when spoken by Aristomedes. He was good enough to tame the black stallion, which was already rumored to have divine heritage.

Hephaestion could believe it of the horse. And now, extraordinary though it was, he thought he could even believe such a thing of Alexander.

Still, what truly surprised him was something else entirely. His father had warned him about prejudice here against his Athenian heritage. But Hephaestion did not sense any of this in Alexander. Rather, among the royal family it was the prince who had returned his greeting first, with a smile that was all the more brilliant for how unguarded it was. While the king and queen made their separate remarks, the prince had only regarded him with what seemed a genuine friendliness.

And there was another indication of character, one that Aristomedes claimed to be more trustworthy than the judgment of most men: the reaction of a good horse.

Alexander had tamed Bucephalus.

Surely, if the prince could understand such a creature, he could not be cruel? If so spirited and wary a horse had gifted him with its trust, surely he could not be unfair, or unkind?

They were at the center of the arena now, where Aristomedes and Euthymius were holding their stallions.

Aristomedes handed the reins to Hephaestion with customary sternness. But then, he gave a small nod, a brief smile. Hephaestion let out a breath he had not known he was holding.

Reminding himself to relax, he instinctively began to watch Alexander's movements with his stallion. He noted how gentle the prince was, turning his steed toward the sun before springing lightly astride. Hephaestion suddenly felt a little ungainly as he mounted, like a bundle of overgrown limbs; his mother had already woven two new chitons for him this year.

However, soon he felt more at ease. While they rode to the starting point at the gate, the prince merely kept up his thoughtful attention to his horse. Even when the spectators' shouts rose sharply in anticipation, Alexander remained patient, stroking the creature's rough mane with surprising care.

Hephaestion smiled – not without a small sense of wonder. Some stories might be worth believing, after all.

As they drew near the gate, he remained respectfully silent, not wishing to disturb the prince and his stallion. He was surprised, therefore, when Alexander suddenly turned with a smile and extended his hand.

"It's a pleasure," he said simply, his eyes glowing even more warmly than his sunlit curls.

Hephaestion blinked. Alexander's smile was honest, open – he almost seemed merely another boy, just looking forward to a good race on a bright summer day.

He clasped Alexander's hand.

"The honor is mine."

The horns sounded; they were off.

* * *

Since before mounting Bucephalus, Alexander had been pondering what to say. He wanted to ask Hephaestion not to hold back out of respect for the prince of Macedon, but to compete in earnest. Not to _let_ Alexander win, for there would be no repercussions for showing his true ability, not if Alexander had anything to do with it. 

At the last moment, when he had offered his hand, Alexander finally managed to begin his speech, determined to make it absolutely clear that he was speaking quite seriously, that he truly wished for this to be a real competition.

But in the moment when the other had met his gaze, everything else was forgotten. "The honor is mine," Hephaestion had answered quietly, and that common platitude had been transformed by the solemn sincerity in his eyes, his voice – everything about him – into something inexplicably wonderful, something that made Alexander's heart soar.

He knew, then, that no more words were needed. Hephaestion was going to do nothing less than his best, precisely because he _did_ respect Alexander.

And Alexander's hunch was right.

At the blast of the horns, together they shot forward from the gate. When they reached the narrow pass, they parted to race through the separate gaps on either side of the central slope. Closed off by the distance and the densely packed trees, for a few seconds Alexander lost all sight and sound of his opponent. He and Bucephalus cleared the pass at top speed; Hephaestion and the white stallion emerged several seconds later.

Yet, soon they were racing side by side again, the other horse right there by Bucephalus, only a stride or two behind, even managing at moments to close the gap so that they ran abreast.

As they dashed across the field, Alexander could sense it all – the sun's rays, the wind whipping his hair back, Bucephalus' hooves hammering the ground below – and his opponent close by, always. Everything was in motion, the tall grass shimmering as it flashed by beneath, the white clouds flowing with the currents above. The stallions' hoofbeats so fast, so close, rumbling across the earth like a roll of thunder.

However, Bucephalus was the more powerful of the two horses, and as they approached the almond grove the white stallion was no longer keeping up. Alexander felt it, even as he set his eyes on a small branch and reached. There was a vague stirring in his heart – and, oddly, it was not the elation of anticipated triumph.

But he had no time to dwell on it. With a neat snap, the branch came away in his hand and Bucephalus veered around the grove – and the other horse appeared again at the edge of his vision. Petals showered down, swept in whirling white cascades from the overhanging branches by the momentum of their ride. With Hephaestion's deft guidance, his steed turned sharply, nearly doubling straight back, darting through the narrow space between Bucephalus and the trees to take the lead. Alexander gasped, but all he could do was urge his stallion on; Bucephalus responded with a burst of speed that he had not thought possible.

Alexander was thrilled – even the sheer pleasure of riding Bucephalus without any escort, free to wander wherever he wished, could not match the joy of _this_!

* * *

Hephaestion knew where each horse's advantages lay: raw power in the prince's steed, dexterity and training in his own. Running a straight course, Bucephalus would definitely win. The turn around the almond grove was the only point at which he could gain any lead. 

At the beginning, the small detour to go through those gaps in the narrow passage should also have given him a small advantage. But a thick branch had suddenly appeared as he turned the passage's sharp corner, too high to jump, but low, so low, and he was still astonished that his stallion had managed slip by underneath. At the time he did not even have the breath to cry out, just hunched down, fervently hoping that by some miracle the branch would get out of the way of his horse's head and neck. Thanks be to Athene that his stallion was not even half an inch taller!

Avoiding the accident raised his spirits almost as much as the ride itself. It was a close race, just as he had expected. Alexander's horse was bigger, with longer strides, but the course was far from done. Upon arriving at the almond grove Hephaestion concentrated on plucking down a branch, then threw a glance ahead through the shower of petals, automatically gauging the distance between the trees and the prince's veering stallion. Before he knew it, he had made the turn, dashing through the tight space. It was quite possibly the sharpest, neatest one of his life, and he felt a rush of exhilaration.

He pulled ahead then, but the prince quickly caught up. As they neared the passage on the way back, the stallions were galloping abreast, hurtling along at breakneck speed. Hephaestion wondered at the swiftness his horse was capable of, but there was no sign that he was pushing too hard – no frothing at the mouth, no undue tension in the muscles. It almost seemed as if his stallion was just rising to the other's challenge. He smiled.

The next moment he gasped; they were approaching the narrow passage again, and the prince was heading right for the gap on the left, the one with the branch. It was a wonder Hephaestion's own horse had made it through. There was no way Bucephalus, at least two hands taller, could avoid the branch – not even by jumping, as it was too high for that.

Hephaestion shouted a warning, but the prince did not hear, concentrating so intently on the race. Zeus above! In a few moments Alexander would turn that corner in the passage and the horse would be hurt badly, and Alexander himself would have a broken rib or a concussion, or worse – !

There was no time for thought. Hephaestion urged his horse forward, cutting across the prince's path, eliciting a scream of angry protest from the black stallion. However, it accomplished his purpose, for Bucephalus did turn aside – but toward the gap in the middle, where the ground sloped up. Hephaestion's own momentum made it impossible for him to turn toward the gap on the right, the only safe one, but the prince could still head for it. Yet he showed no sign of changing direction. Hephaestion wanted to yell another warning; the ground was so much more level in that passage on the right, and surely the prince could see that it was safer! But the prince and his stallion were already bounding through. Air rushed cold and sharp into Hephaestion's lungs and he could only squeeze his eyes shut and cling on desperately as they crashed through behind, a breath away from colliding into the black stallion's hooves.

* * *

An uneasy murmur coursed through the arena, but it was nothing compared to the alarm of the young riders' parents. Amyntor sprang to his feet; the Queen cried out, eyes blazing. Even Philip, their battle-hardened King, surged up from his seat, gripping the handles of his chair so hard that the veins stood out on his arms and hands.

* * *

A moment later, Hephaestion dared open his eyes again. The jump was behind him. And before him – no fallen steed or injured royalty, just the prince and his stallion dashing onward toward the arena. Thankfully, too, his own horse seemed unhurt. 

Relief hit like a hammer, forcing the thought from him in a breathless shout. "_You – you're inSANE!_"

* * *

Hearing the startled cry behind him, Alexander felt a little surge of indignation. For whatever reason Hephaestion had suddenly blocked his path, forcing Bucephalus in a different direction. That was enough of a distraction, though Alexander was certain Hephaestion had a reason for it. And now, _this_! 

However, the goal of the moment was victory – only a few seconds more, and he would win this race, the closest competition of his life.

With an exultant cheer, Alexander urged Bucephalus in the gate and onward toward the royal box.

* * *

The cause was not clear, but the crowd could guess what had happened – the prince was approaching the passage, when Amyntor's son had suddenly wheeled in front of him, forcing him to go through the most dangerous gap of all, the one where the ground sloped up sharply, forming a high, long obstacle. 

Even without any hurdles, cutting into another horse's path at such a moment was reckless, _dangerous_.

But Hephaestion had done it. So Amyntor believed there was a reason, a good one.

He just hoped his son would have an opportunity to explain himself. By the look of things, however, there would be little chance of that. At the Queen's shriek, the guards closest to the royal pavilion swarmed forward. She herself was rushing down from the royal box as the prince galloped in, grasping him tightly as soon as he dismounted, while the guards continued past her, toward Hephaestion.

Amyntor's jaw tightened. He matched the king stride for stride as Philip, too, stalked onto the riding ground.

* * *

When he let his horse stop at the center of the arena a few seconds after the prince had crossed it, Hephaestion still felt shaken, and it was no longer because of the near-accident. A chill ran through him as he saw the grim alarm on his father's face. 

It was so close to disappointment.

Hephaestion's heart sank. Had he not promised his father just before the race that he would be careful, and not just in riding? And now look what he had done – made a foolhardy, _dangerous_ move, risked tripping up his horse mid-gallop over a high, long jump, and at the end of it all when the danger itself was already past, he had called the prince crazy. The _prince_!

To his chagrin, he found it impossible to quell the tiny part of him that insisted on the truth of it. True or not, it was definitely, absolutely, most assuredly_ not_ a clever thing to say.

He had hardly dismounted when a shadow loomed over him – a tall, broad-shouldered young officer, followed by a pack of other soldiers. They quickly surrounded him. His eyes widened; beside him his stallion snorted, loathe to stay still in the hostile press of men.

The tall officer stepped closer and sneered, ripping the almond branch from Hephaestion's hand. Hephaestion hardly noticed; he had forgotten he was holding it. "Don't play innocent, little whelp!" the officer growled, advancing another step, crushing the blossoms underfoot. "_I_ saw what you did out there! Not only trying to cheat, but endangering the prince's life to do so! Did you think you could actually get away with it, _son of Amyntor_?"

The accusations hit him almost like physical blows. Such charges, however untrue, leveled against him, against his father's house! He should never have tried that stunt.

Yet he knew that if he were to go through it all over again he would do the same, no matter how incriminating it appeared, because it had all been _instinct_ – not a shred of logic in the whole thing. He was even more mortified to feel heat rising to his cheeks, not only from a sense of the unfairness of it all, but from a sense of disgrace. His father would not believe him capable of it, but obviously the rest of the people here thought he had resorted to outright sabotage just to win a stupid race. And he had promised his father to be careful, promised to make him proud at the court of Pella!

Well, he had to say _something_ in his own defense. "There was a branch – " he began, but the officer bawled an order, drowning out his voice.

"Seize him!"

_last revised 12 September 2006_


	5. Ch 4: The Beginning

**A/N**: Once upon a time I hoped to post fast enough for readers to remember some things from ch.1 when reading this last chapter – like Alexander wishing he could give Bucephalus his favorite kind of apple, etc. So much for that idea!

_**Thanks**_: To Fredericka, whose insight, patience, and encouragement helped this along in so many ways. To Moon71, whose comment kicked off the initial idea for this story. And to everyone who's stuck through with this – especially you wonderful reviewers, the feedback has been informative and helpful – and all around, just incredible. (More always welcome!) Sincerely, thank you. Without further ado –

**Chapter 4: The Beginning**

Olympias flew down from the royal box to seize her son in a tight embrace, caressing his hair anxiously even as she poked and prodded at him to find out if he had been hurt – none too gently, so strong was her fear. Philip followed, likewise scrutinizing Alexander for injuries, though with a soldier's pragmatic calm. As Olympias fired questions at Alexander about what exactly the other boy had done to him – too anxious to wait for any answers – Philip grimaced. He doubted that Amyntor's son had _tried_ to cause an accident. Everything depended now on what Alexander would say; if only Olympias would let the boy speak – ! But she did not relent, not even when Alexander pressed the prize of the almond branch into her hands.

Beyond the folds of his mother's robes, Alexander saw Amyntor rush by, and suddenly her implacable distress was not his only concern. A moment later he heard Philotas shout, "Seize him!"

With a jolt of alarm, he sprang from his mother's hold.

* * *

The soldiers closed in. Hephaestion took a step back, but they had surrounded him and there was nowhere to go – he only knew one person in the whole arena who might yet forestall this impending disaster, but he could not, _would_ not shame his father by running to him now. His arm was grabbed from behind; his stallion stamped furiously, on the verge of violent retaliation against the man who had dared to lay a hand on its young master. Hephaestion pressed his free hand to its neck and breathlessly commanded it to stay still; the horse snorted but obeyed, while he instinctively tried to twist away from the soldier's grasp – 

"Wait!"

A young voice, but clear, confident. The guards turned; Hephaestion could not see beyond them, but he realized who it was, even as he shook off the soldier's hold.

It was Alexander.

The next moment someone broke through the press of soldiers and clasped Hephaestion close.

"Father!"

Hephaestion had never seen his father lose his calm, and even now his voice was controlled as he murmured, "Hephaestion, my son –" Yet underneath his soothing tone there was something intense – _fierce_. "No need to worry; just tell me what happened. I'll explain to them."

Relief flooded through Hephaestion, so strong as to make him lightheaded; his fingers closed unconsciously in a tight grip on his father's robes. At the same time, determination surged once more. His father trusted him, even now, and Hephaestion was not going to let him down.

As the prince ran up, the soldiers instinctively made way for him – not only because his father was king. Alexander was usually pleasant with them, confident but also amiable; the son of the king, but also a curious boy. Right now, however, he was every inch the prince.

He stopped short just within the circle, breathing hard.

Amyntor still had a protective arm around Hephaestion's shoulders as he glanced toward Philip and Olympias, repeating tensely, "Just tell me and I'll talk it through with them. Everything will be just fine."

Hephaestion pulled back a little to look up into his father's face. Somehow he summoned a smile, or at least a semblance of one. "You're right, Father. Everything _will_ be fine."

He turned to face the prince.

Amyntor was already deliberating how to address the king and queen, what exactly he would say to Philip. But at his son's words, he looked down in astonishment, only to see Hephaestion release a white-knuckled grip on his robes.

A spark of pride flared within his heart.

Hephaestion had already headed forward. Taking a deep breath, Amyntor willed himself to concentrate on that spark instead.

* * *

Philotas moved to intercept Hephaestion. Alarmed, Alexander stepped before him and said sharply, "_I'll_ speak with him, Philotas." 

Frowning, Philotas glanced surreptitiously toward the king and queen, who were still standing a small distance away. Alexander clearly wished to handle this himself, and they seemed willing to let him try. Nevertheless, they were watching, closely. Philotas paused, but remained in his place as guard commander. "Alexander . . ."

Alexander felt a prick of exasperation. He did not need anyone to baby him, and though his parents still wielded great influence in his life, right now absolutely no one else was going to act in his stead. "You've no right to accuse him of anything, Philotas. You weren't there; you didn't see what happened! If anyone has that right, it's _me_."

Immediately he realized how ominous this might sound to Hephaestion, who had looked somber as he approached, but determined, too. Alexander swiveled back, only to see Hephaestion stop short, then take a deep breath, as if he were about to plunge into a deathly cold lake. At this, Alexander wished nothing more than to take his words back, but what was done was done. Waving the soldiers off impatiently, he quickly closed the distance between himself and Hephaestion.

* * *

When Alexander first spoke to the officer, it was as if a burden had been lifted from Hephaestion's chest, for it seemed that somehow this mess could still be resolved, that the prince understood what had really happened. But at Alexander's final words, the weight plummeted straight back, even heavier than before. 

The last thing he wanted to do now was to meet the prince's gaze. Even if he could explain himself, even if he could convince Alexander that his only motive was to get him to avoid that branch – he _had_ called the prince insane. That was the very word he had yelled so foolishly! There was no reason to hope for lenience.

And crushing in on his resolve was something truly unbearable – he had made his father a promise ...

He set his jaw. And he was just about to begin a very calm, extremely reasonable, impressively logical explanation of everything, when Alexander asked, "What happened?"

Hephaestion looked up, startled at the lack of anger in the prince's voice. Apparently Alexander had ordered the soldiers to stand off, and they had backed away a little – several paces, in fact.

He was prepared for hostility. But at this seeming reprieve, the calm, reasonable, logical explanation completely deserted him.

Seeing his incredulous expression, Alexander elaborated, "You cut in front of Bucephalus ... The way you ride, it seems very ... unlike you, to make such a move, one that might endanger another horse, as well as your own. Not to mention, you were running quite a risk, yourself!" Alexander's voice held no accusation, only curiosity. "So, why did you do it?"

Hephaestion did not answer right away, not yet daring to believe the look in the prince's gaze, a look that seemed oddly like ... trust.

Preoccupied with that strange light in Alexander's eyes, he fumbled for an answer. "The path you were riding toward – I rode through it, when we headed out. There's a branch at the bend. My horse could barely slip under it, but your stallion ..." He trailed off. Even to his own ears the excuse sounded quite lame.

Alexander's brow furrowed. Then, his eyes widened with comprehension. "Bucephalus wouldn't have made it."

He called to the guards that all was well, then returned his attention to Hephaestion before he could see Philotas scowl in surprise and motion to his men to stay in place.

Hephaestion did see, but the guards were the last of his concerns at the moment. For the prince to accept his word, just like that! He could hardly believe it! The Macedonian court – any court! – was notorious for hidden dangers – including sabotage. Shouldn't the prince be more on guard?

"Don't you at least want to see the branch for yourself?" he exclaimed.

Alexander gazed at him quizzically.

Then, he smiled.

"You told me what happened. I don't need to look."

Hephaestion blinked, stunned.

Before he could summon a coherent response, the officer approached, hissing the prince's name. Alexander turned to him. "Call your men off, Philotas. He just saved me a few broken bones, at the very least."

"Someone really _should_ take a look, Alexander," Philotas growled, acutely conscious of the dark stares of both Philip and Olympias. His first action as an officer was dissolving into nothing before their eyes, and all because of Alexander's own childish naiveté! "Here, I'll go. You there, get me a horse."

The guard left before Alexander had a chance to stop him. Alexander gritted his teeth, but he had to concede that it was within Philotas' right to investigate in his name, especially with the support of his parents.

He nodded at Hephaestion reassuringly – and was peculiarly heartened himself. Hephaestion no longer seemed concerned about the accusation against him. He was watching Alexander instead, perplexed – but with no sign of fear for his own fate.

With a swell of confidence, Alexander leapt onto Bucephalus. "If someone _has_ to take a look, Philotas," he declared, managing to keep his voice mostly free of sarcasm, "I'll go myself. _With_ Hephaestion." He gestured encouragingly for Hephaestion to mount up too.

"Alexander!" Philotas blurted out. "He's a suspect!"

Alexander scowled. Grudgingly, Philotas subsided.

Hephaestion mounted quietly, still glancing at Alexander as if he were a baffling puzzle. The three of them rode out.

* * *

When they returned, Philip and Olympias were waiting at the gate. Amyntor stood by, silent. Only his grim expression betrayed that he heard every accusation the queen was throwing at his son as her anger crested. Even before Bucephalus halted she rushed forward. Fretfully she clutched Alexander's hands in her own. 

"What's this, Alexander? Why are you letting him _ride_ after what he's done?" Her voice turned knife-sharp. "You – son of Parmenion, no? I thought I made myself _very_ clear –"

"It's all right, Mother!" Alexander slipped his hands out of her grip and gently grasped her arms. "Everything's all right!"

Olympias shot a venomous glare at Hephaestion before finally returning her son's gaze. Alexander smiled, eager to set her mind at rest.

"It's thanks to Hephaestion that I avoided a fall, Mother. A very bad one." He explained about the branch in the path. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his father relax quickly, but he had to repeat himself several times for his mother to really hear it.

Slowly, as the gleam in her eyes lost its edge of alarm, Alexander's voice softened too. "Hephaestion saved me from the fall, Mother. _He saved me._"

Alexander glanced at Hephaestion then, just for a moment. The warmth of it caught Olympias' attention, and she followed her son's gaze toward the other boy.

Now she studied him, really looked at him. He lowered his eyes respectfully as soon as he realized her gaze was upon him, but it was enough. Before then, he had been watching Alexander – neither with defensive apprehension, nor with the usual blubbery, fawning adulation of courtiers. He was just looking on, wide-eyed, silently taking everything in.

After years of maneuvering as a woman in the royal court, Olympias knew loyalty when she saw it. Now she could definitely see the beginnings of it, there in the eyes of Amyntor's son.

Finally, she was willing to reconsider. Alexander seemed to have taken an unusual liking to this boy, more so than to any of his previous companions. With that in mind, if he had saved her son – as Alexander said he had – then, perhaps, she could spare him from her wrath. If only for Alexander's sake.

That did not mean, however, that she had to _like_ him. (Especially since, by causing Alexander to ride faster and rougher than ever before, the boy had undone in a few minutes her entire hour of careful hair-curling and wardrobe-planning.) Even though he might have helped Alexander today, no matter how well Alexander thought of him, he had better know his place, and tread with extreme care around her son. She would be watching.

As for Alexander, he had proved himself yet again. Suddenly remembering the almond branch, she lovingly returned it to him. With all these annoying distractions out of the way, his triumph would soon be officially declared, and it would not do for him to be without his hard-earned prize.

Philip had listened closely to Alexander – but only the first time around. As Alexander repeated himself for his mother's sake, Philip noticed instead how his son's hands, still small compared to his own, deftly reversed his mother's grip on them, how he took hold of her arms, trying to calm her. How he actually _succeeded_.

Philip allowed a small, satisfied smile.

He shot a dismissive look at Philotas, but the young man was hovering too close to Alexander to notice.

"Alexander, it's not exactly proof," Philotas muttered. Really, this was winding down as pathetically as a party that had run out of wine, not at all the sort of conclusion he had envisioned for his first commanding action.

Alexander shot him an incredulous stare. Then his lips curved upward knowingly. "Thank you, Philotas."

"You've proved your loyalty well today," Olympias added with frigid sovereignty. Behind her, Philip coolly nodded.

Mollified by this bit of recognition – and sensing at last that the royal family's irritation would turn on _him_ if he persisted any further – Philotas hastily signaled his men to return to their posts.

* * *

The crowd rumbled in agitation, watching the proceedings from afar. A few scattered individuals sneered – "He's an Athenian after all, what could you _possibly_ expect?" But most of their fellows shot them irritated glares; the boy had won them over with his earlier performance. Moreover, Alexander had entered into a competition with him – it would be a shame if he were merely a petty cheat! Unable to hear what was being said at the center of the arena, they murmured restlessly among themselves, until finally the guards withdrew. 

"It's all right!" Philip's voice boomed across the field. "We suspected a little accident. There was a close moment there, as you no doubt saw, but everything turned out fine! What's more – " he turned back to his son proudly, "as you all can bear witness, Alexander is the victor!"

The triumph of their young prince was a highly appropriate finale; the crowd gave a standing ovation. But to everyone's surprise, Alexander merely shook his head. Their cheers faded into a baffled, suspenseful hush.

Alexander went to stand by the other boy. "Father," he called out, his voice carrying clearly throughout the arena, "if it weren't for Hephaestion the accident _would_ have happened, and the win would not have been mine."

Philip wheeled around; Olympias frowned severely. Alexander never shared victory. Toys, books, leisure time – certainly he was openhanded with those, especially toward his younger companions. Victory was another matter. He had never offered to share such a thing, and of course, even if he had, no one would ever have dared to accept.

However, Alexander was oblivious to their shock, too busy addressing the audience instead – explaining exactly how Hephaestion had saved him and his beloved Bucephalus from a terrible accident. "Therefore, Father," he concluded, "I think this race should be declared a tie!"

Startled, Hephaestion backpedaled instinctively, warily. But Alexander caught his hand so that they held the almond blossoms together, and smiled.

The crowd seemed to have lost its breath. But after a stunned pause, they broke forth once again with a hearty roar of approval.

Philip snorted, amused. Alexander certainly had a flair for grand gestures.

Taming Bucephalus had been such a gesture in Philip's opinion – a great achievement, a triumph as glorious as any a boy might dream of. But today, Alexander had done something more. He had stepped up – not as a boy, and not out of a desire to prove himself mature, which would merely have proved the opposite. He had acted independently, for himself, as the royal prince he was.

As for the cause of all this ... Philip smiled. The more he observed Amyntor's son, the stronger his instinct grew, that Hephaestion might be a good friend to Alexander. Perhaps even better than the companions he already had – for this friendship would form by Alexander's choice alone.

He glanced at his wife, who was watching their son proudly. It was rare enough that they felt similarly about anything. Philip nodded, pleased.

"Let it be as you say, Alexander!"

Amidst the deafening cheers that followed, Alexander's name resounded all around as the spectators praised his fairness and generosity.

Olympias' first reaction to Philip's words was irritation, especially since a few shouts arose for Hephaestion as well. But her husband's decree was, after all, what Alexander wanted. The crowd's response reassured her that her son was still adored above all others, and furthermore, it proved that this magnanimous act of his, far from lessening his triumph, had won him even greater glory. Satisfied, Olympias headed back toward the royal box.

Philip tapped Amyntor's shoulder.

"So, the wager ends in a tie."

It took Amyntor a moment to pull his gaze away from his son, but he did. "So it does." He sighed. "Thanks to you, Sire, and to the prince."

"So." Philip's good eye glinted. "Neither of us gets a prize for winning. But how about an exchange of gifts?"

"What did you have in mind, Sire?"

With a quick look at the boys, Philip started toward the royal pavilion. "Come."

Amyntor gave his son a final glance.

He was not a man to be ruled by emotion; years of politics had long since ensured that. But he had always cherished his son. And at this moment, as sentimental as it seemed, as cliched as it might be, he could not deny that which now swelled in his heart. There stood Hephaestion, unharmed, and moreover, undaunted – after everything that had happened, after facing dishonor and even punishment for an act of courage and integrity – after he took up full responsibility for his own actions.

It hit Amyntor with pride, and wonder – and in the midst of the joy, a small, bittersweet twinge. Not regret – no, never! – but something like it.

His son was growing up. Everything that Amyntor had ever hoped for, and more.

Alexander was speaking with Hephaestion, and the eagerness on his face lightened Amyntor's heart. Pretending not to see Alexander's fleeting glance in their direction, he caught up with Philip.

"They grow quickly, don't they?"

Amyntor stared at Philip. Philip, King of Macedon and, for all practical purposes, Hegemon of the Hellenic states – a soldier, a commander, and in every way a king. But he understood immediately. Philip was a father, too.

He nodded. "You know I put no stock in common rumors. But your son truly seems favored by the gods. Bright, confident, everything a prince should be – and he has a generous heart. He will achieve much."

Philip glanced at him. "Your son as well."

Amyntor frowned. "I didn't say that just because of what Alexander did for Hephaestion today."

"And I didn't say that just because of what Hephaestion did for Alexander."

Amyntor studied him, trying to guess where this might lead. But Philip was looking ahead.

Under the royal pavilion, Cleopatra had returned. While Olympias pulled her tousled hair back in a stiff plait with strong, unsympathetic fingers, the girl pouted, but did not squirm much.

Philip grimaced. "There's not much talk about this yet, because things are falling in place only now, and the less notice certain people have, the better. You've heard of Aristotle, yes? The son of my father's physician?"

"Yes, of course," Amyntor replied, wondering at the change of subject. "Used to be one of Plato's top students in the latter's Academy in Athens, and was even one of the candidates to succeed as its master."

"Right." Philip's gaze grew distant. "In a few months, I'll be sending Alexander to school with several of his companions. Young men, a few boys – peers, likely to be important in his future. Construction in Mieza won't be finished until autumn, but Aristotle has agreed to be their teacher. It's only a day's ride away from Pella, but removed somewhat for all that – no plots or political scheming, at least." He snorted. "Not as much as here, anyway – and certainly not like in Athens as it is now. I don't need to point out to you that considering your reports, it's safer to send your son to school here, in Macedon, rather than anywhere close to home. And of course," he added with satisfaction, "Aristotle's tutelage could compare favorably to any education you could get in Athens for him."

He turned to face Amyntor. "Well? Would you like a place at Mieza for your son?"

Amyntor did not reply right away. It was unbelievable, how high his son's prospects had suddenly soared.

Yet there was the other side of it, too. Of course he hoped that Hephaestion would do well. Of course he had taken painstaking care with Hephaestion's upbringing. Of course he knew, logically, that soon his road and his son's must part a little more, that Hephaestion must indeed start making his own way in Macedon, alone and away from his family.

But he was not to be alone, not anymore. He was to be a companion of the prince.

Amyntor had prepared his son in every way he could think of. Yet at this moment he realized, upon being offered this brilliant chance that exceeded all his hopes, that he himself had not been quite prepared.

But then, what father was ever completely prepared to let his son go?

There was a faint warning in his heart, as well. Victory in a horse race was a small matter, a trifle. When it came to things like titles and honors, and the friendship of royalty, men were much less likely to cheer another's rising star.

Yet, perhaps, Hephaestion would be ready for that, too. Just as he had been ready for today.

"You would offer that much, Sire?"

Philip nodded.

"Nothing would please me more," Amyntor murmured, then chuckled incredulously. "I don't think any treasure of mine could match such a gift."

Philip clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, but I think so, Amyntor." He gave Amyntor a wry, sympathetic grin, then looked past him to the two boys at the center of the field. His smile was warm as his gaze alighted briefly on Hephaestion, then came to rest on Alexander.

"After all –" Philip heaved a contented sigh, "no treasure in the world is worth so much as a son who makes his father proud."

* * *

"Well, how do you like that?" Alexander huffed when their fathers moved ahead. "They just go off talking about trading gifts, when _we_ should be the ones doing that! We're the ones who actually raced, after all!" He turned excitedly to Hephaestion. "Just imagine – the two of _us_ exchanging gifts, here, in the arena. The crowd would be _thrilled_!" 

To his surprise, Hephaestion did not quite share his enthusiasm. "But that wouldn't work," he said slowly, holding his hands out from his sides. "To begin with, I ... I have nothing to give you."

Alexander blinked. "Well, I don't either," he replied, just now realizing it. "But I'm sure we could think of something. Anyway, we have time now; you're staying for a little while ... aren't you?" he asked anxiously. He had no idea how long Amyntor was visiting.

"Two weeks," Hephaestion answered.

"Well, that's plenty of time!" Alexander exclaimed, though it immediately struck him that two weeks could never be enough – not two years, not twenty! He sobered. "Besides, you've already done something for me, far better than any old present. I'd probably be with the surgeons right now if it weren't for you."

"I don't know if I did _that_ much," Hephaestion protested. "Anyway, I should thank _you_, for ... for believing me."

Alexander suddenly felt that he could not smile wide enough. But before he could say anything, Hephaestion continued, "It was luck, really. Bucephalus swerved just in time. He's really remarkable; all those stories about him aren't exaggerating!"

Alexander's brows rose. "Your horse is hardly any less impressive! Never mind the race; just watching the show, I could tell ..." He paused, not knowing exactly what he wanted to say. "Well, just for example, there was a moment – just before you caught the staff – even _I_ could hear the ribbons fluttering, but your stallion galloped right on. There are cavalry horses that shy more easily than he does!" He shook his head. "I suppose, having watched you ride, I shouldn't have been so surprised, but I couldn't believe it when you tried to change Bucephalus' course! There was hardly any space to maneuver. What made you think to cut across?"

"I called a warning, but that didn't do any good. Blocking the way was the first thing that came to mind ..." Hephaestion shrugged self-consciously. "Thank the gods it worked, but once you turned aside, you headed straight toward the middle gap, the highest jump! And you didn't look like you were going to stop, or swerve, or pull up – not for anything."

Alexander just looked at him. Then he _grinned_, seeming for all the world as if he had just been paid a grand compliment.

"No. I wasn't," he agreed. His eyes gleamed. "Perhaps ... it was rather insane, after all."

Hephaestion caught his breath. There had been so many turnarounds today, he would not be surprised at another.

But Alexander had said it so lightly, and a smile still played at his lips.

"Well," Hephaestion ventured, "I'm the one who tried to block a prince's way. And I followed you right through that gap. So I suppose ... you can count me crazy, too."

They stared at each other. Then, simultaneously, they both grinned.

Suddenly Bucephalus nudged Alexander's shoulder, as if wishing to share the jest. Alexander chuckled. "Bucephalus, I'd like you to meet Hephaestion."

Hephaestion laughed, finally at ease. He mock-saluted roguishly. "Pleased to make your acquaintance!" Bucephalus answered with a majestic nod.

Hephaestion guided his own horse forward. "This is ... my stallion."

"What's his name?" asked Alexander.

"He ... doesn't have one yet," Hephaestion admitted.

Alexander blinked. "Why not?"

"My father's horses are trained for other men. Aristomedes doesn't bother to name them all."

"But he _is_ yours, isn't he?" Alexander demanded indignantly.

Hephaestion nodded. "Just a few days ago, my father suddenly told me I could keep him. Aristomedes once said that he's fit for the greatest of lords; the least I can do is give him a worthy name. But we were busy preparing for this visit, so I haven't chosen a proper name yet." He grinned as Alexander tentatively reached a hand toward the stallion's nose. "Go on, he won't bite."

Alexander smiled as he gazed up at the horse's eyes. "I know he won't."

The stallion sniffed experimentally at Alexander's hand. Bucephalus snorted in a friendly fashion; the other horse's ears turned forward, listening. Then Hephaestion murmured something softly. With a gentle whicker, the stallion lowered its head next to Alexander.

Alexander delightedly took up the invitation, patting its sleek, strong neck. "He's wonderful ... The first time one of our grooms approached Bucephalus, he nearly kicked down a fence before I could calm him! But I think your stallion feels safe, with you beside him." His voice softened. "You've trained with him a long time, haven't you? He belongs with you. I've only had Bucephalus a few months, but I wouldn't let anyone take him from me, not for a fortune! To think I might have lost him today ..." He suppressed a shudder. "It would be a shame to part the two of you!"

"That's what Aristomedes said," Hephaestion smiled, "though not half as emphatically as you!"

Alexander stroked the stallion's feathery mane in admiration. "He's so fast, he could have been sired by Zephyr," he sighed. Just like Achilles' horses –

"Like Xanthus and Balius?" Hephaestion grinned. "No. Pedasos, at best – on a _good_ day."

Abruptly Alexander turned, staring at Hephaestion.

In all of Homer's verse, there were but a few lines devoted to Achilles' stallions. Xanthus and Balius, divine sons of Zephyr, who wept when Patroclus died. And Pedasos, mortal – but able to run at their pace, yoked by Achilles as a trace horse beside them, to steady them and keep their chariot on course.

Other boys had trouble recalling the best warriors' names. Most never bothered about other soldiers, never mind their horses.

Yet Hephaestion knew. And his horse seemed tended with as much care as if it were a mythical steed. In the afternoon light the white stallion's coat shimmered, like clouds, sunlit, wind-driven, racing toward distant mountaintops.

Alexander felt curiously light.

"Pegasus!" he murmured, not caring that he had just elevated the stallion's status even more, from son of the West Wind to progeny of Poseidon Earth-shaker himself.

Hephaestion was about to laugh; he and his horse understood each other well, but Hephaestion also knew every laborious hour, every dusty tumble and bruised shin that had built that understanding. Alexander's stallion had understood him within a matter of minutes – Bucephalus, really, was more likely the offspring of some god.

But Alexander looked so serious. Despite himself, Hephaestion felt strangely moved.

"Pegasus, then." He bowed his head solemnly. "For the honor of the name, I thank you."

Alexander inclined his own head, and smiled.

Bucephalus had remained quiet, sensing that the boys' attention was occupied. But finally he grew impatient. Besides, what he wanted was not with his own little rider. He stepped past Alexander to prod at the other boy.

"Oh!" Hephaestion exclaimed. "Well, perhaps we can't exchange gifts, but you've given my horse a name. And I do have something I could give, after a fashion, to Bucephalus. I suppose he knows already." He chuckled as the stallion nudged him more forcefully, and reached toward the satchel at his side. "It's not much," he said, suddenly hesitant, "but ... here."

Despite Bucephalus' forwardness, he knew how skittish the stallion was. So instead of giving it directly to Bucephalus, he offered the apple to Alexander.

An apple with red and gold streaks. Just the kind Bucephalus liked best.

Alexander stared at it. Then, very slowly, he lifted his gaze to Hephaestion, grave with wonder.

Hephaestion shifted uneasily. Was the prince offended? Ridiculous, really, to offer an _apple_ to a prince ...

But then, Alexander slowly raised his hand to Hephaestion's, and accepted the apple. "It's perfect," he breathed.

He contemplated it, holding it close, like some great treasure. Then, with a glowing smile, he handed it back. "You give it to him."

Hephaestion instinctively did so, but it was Alexander who held his attention. For his part, Alexander watched his horse, quiet and pensive while Bucephalus crunched the apple down and nudged Hephaestion again, gently this time, as if in thanks.

"He's never taken to anyone like this before," Alexander murmured. "It's strange, and unexpected – but wonderful, too. Don't you see?" He turned his gaze back to Hephaestion, earnestly, solemnly. "He trusts you."

Hephaestion stared, amazed.

Normally he would never imagine speaking such words, but somehow he sensed that Alexander would not mind. A wry smile tugged at his lips. "You're not exactly ... what I expected, for a prince."

Alexander blinked. "And you're not what I expected either, for ..." He struggled to explain. "For another son, of yet another of my father's friends."

But Hephaestion grinned, understanding perfectly.

Alexander beamed back.

* * *

"There you are, Alexander!" 

Alexander turned; his friends (including quite a few of those sons of his father's friends) were tumbling up, along with Cleitus and Craterus. Cleitus clapped a hand on Alexander's shoulder. "That was quite a competition!"

"Congratulations, Alexander!" Nicanor and Hector chorused. "And congratulations to you, too –" Suddenly, the boys broke off in dismay.

Hector was the first to overcome his uncertainty. "I'm sorry, but you have a very strange name, you know!"

"Is it a family name?" asked Nicanor.

"Or were you named after the god of the forge?" inquired Hector.

"And how would you spell it anyway?" Nicanor exclaimed.

The others chuckled. The boys reddened; quickly they glanced at Alexander, wondering if they had been rude. Alexander was not irritated, but he did turn a half-apologetic look toward Hephaestion.

To their delight, Hephaestion gave the boys a small, surprised smile, and spelled his name without any sign of being offended. "And you're right on both guesses as to its origin – " he paused, waiting for the boys' names.

"I'm Hector!"

"And I'm Nicanor!"

Hephaestion nodded. "Thank you very much for your congratulations, Hector, Nicanor," he said, impressing them even more for addressing them with sincere courtesy, just as if they were every bit as big as their older brothers.

Alexander smiled as the boys' faces lit up, but he noticed that Hephaestion seemed slightly on guard again, here among all these older youths. And it was no wonder, with Cassander glaring so sullenly, for one ...

"Alexander," Harpalus piped up, "aren't you going to introduce us to your new friend here?"

Alexander grinned. An introduction was just the thing, with all of them here right now. "Well, this is Hephaestion, son of Amyntor. Hephaestion, this is ... everybody." Amid hearty laughter, Alexander continued, naming them one by one.

These, then, were some of the peers whom Hephaestion would join in the Macedonian court. Hephaestion stored the names away carefully. Craterus, an officer, who seemed rather stiffly formal – looking at Alexander rather than at Hephaestion as he muttered a very brief greeting. Cleitus, another officer, who cheerily clapped Hephaestion on the back so hard that he was almost too busy keeping his balance to hear the man's congratulations on his horsemanship, while several others nodded – in _agreement_. Cassander, Nicanor's older brother, though quite his opposite in demeanor, just as Hector was so different from _his_ older brother, Philotas, the commander of the guards. Ptolemy, Nearchus, and Harpalus – all looked quite sharp, each in his own way. Perdiccas and Seleucus appeared more relaxed, while Leonnatus was nearly as enthusiastic as Hector and Nicanor.

"You've lingered here a while, Alexander," Harpalus remarked. "We thought you might've taken Bucephalus back to the stables."

"I think he completely forgot the rest of us, having found such a wonderful new friend," Cassander retorted. He turned away sharply. "Well, I'm off. Father wants me to prepare for the banquet tonight, as befits a _general's_ son. Come along, Nicanor!"

Nicanor's face fell. "It's not for a long time! I want to stay!"

"Fine! Don't come whining to me when our parents scold you for loitering!"

"Oh, leave off," Ptolemy said. "Just tell them he's with Alexander."

Cassander scowled. Unable to stare down Ptolemy, he gave the new boy a scathing glare. "What are _you_ looking at?" He stalked off, muttering something about busybody Athenians.

Hephaestion just looked on curiously as he departed, but Alexander frowned. Fortunately, Perdiccas spoke up. "Don't worry about him."

"Cassander's usually like that," Seleucus added.

"Really? You mean he _wasn't_ trying to make a good impression just now?" Hephaestion made a funny face, belying the mischief behind the words. Alexander forgot his irritation, joining in the others' laughter.

"Actually that's about as polite as he'll get!" crowed Leonnatus.

"Well, boys, seems like it's left to you to show our guest a better example of Macedon's finest citizens," Cleitus smirked. "Though I'm not sure you're up to it, even if you pooled all your manners together!"

"Are they to take _you_ as the example, then?" Craterus inquired dryly.

"May all the gods forbid!" Cleitus laughed. "I intend to be on my worst behavior at tonight's feast, for example."

"Speaking of the feast, you'll be there, right?" Harpalus asked Hephaestion. "Everyone who's anyone will be attending."

"Meantime, we can take you to see our marketplace," Seleucus suggested. "It might not be as big as those in Athens, but I daresay it has things Athens doesn't – even trinkets from lands beyond Persia sometimes!"

"We can visit the gymnasium first!" Leonnatus grinned.

"You spend enough time there, Leonnatus!" Ptolemy chuckled. "What about the library?"

They kept arguing – armory, stables, palace, even just strolling through the city. Hephaestion listened with growing enthusiasm. Whatever bad blood there was between Athens and Macedon, they seemed to care little enough about it to give him a chance as an individual.

Through the clamor of voices, Alexander came forward. "Actually, Hephaestion, there is a place I would like to show you."

He had spoken quietly, but his expression held something intense.

Hephaestion smiled. "Where?" he asked, just as quietly.

Alexander beamed. "Come! We're going for another ride!"

The companions realized Alexander's intention.

"We just went for a ride yesterday!" protested Leonnatus. "And you rode even farther than the rest of us!"

"People are already going home to get ready for the feast," Nearchus remarked.

Craterus frowned. "Your parents will want you to prepare somewhat for it, won't they?"

Alexander looked back, but made ready to mount Bucephalus. "Everything will be fine," he insisted.

"You can go and still make it back in time," Cleitus winked, "especially with such fast horses." Hector and Nicanor cheered.

Ptolemy shrugged. "At least consider your guest, Alexander. He's been riding all afternoon, and he might want a rest."

At that, Alexander finally hesitated.

But then came Hephaestion's voice, eager and bright and quite the opposite of tired; he and Pegasus were already trotting toward the gate. "Come on, Prince Alexander! Which way are we going?"

Alexander laughed and swung astride Bucephalus. "See? We'll be perfectly fine!" he called to the companions, and urged Bucephalus forward. "Just call me Alexander, Hephaestion; all my friends do! –"


	6. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

So the two of them rode out together, galloping through the green field and beyond.

Euthymius came by, deep in conversation with Aristomedes about the ideals upheld in Xenophon's treatise. He had intended to take Bucephalus back to the stables, expecting the prince to have more important business, but both men stopped short as Alexander and Hephaestion dashed by on their steeds, waving excitedly to them on their way out the gate.

To the companions' amazement, Euthymius sniffled.

However, Aristomedes seemed to understand, and patted his shoulder sympathetically. Yet Euthymius could only rub a brawny hand against his eyes and hiccup. When Cleitus asked what was wrong, it was too much; he bawled out something garbled about how marvelous it was to see two such fine youths riding two such fine, fine horses. _Look_, he cried, _how the sunlight glistens on the steeds' marvelous coats, one cloud-white, the other jet black; how it crowns the boy's heads, one in burnished bronze, and the other in gleaming gold. Such opposites, and yet such parallels. What a beautiful sight it is!_

The companions made sure to tell Alexander, that very night at the feast, about their gruff old Euthymius bursting into tears of sheer admiration and spouting lines quite akin to poetry – as well as the incident at the stables, where their new friend had charmed apples from the very same cantankerous stable master.

But even though they laughed, they had to agree as Aristomedes sighed and echoed Euthymius' sentiments. _What a magnificent image they make_ – _almost as if those splendid steeds are divine stallions, bearing a pair of young heroes straight from the legends of old!_

Of course, unlike the story of Alexander's meeting with Bucephalus, this tale has not been passed down through the ages. Those who wrote the histories had other things to glorify, their own stories to tell, their own legends to pass on.

However, Alexander and Hephaestion cared little about such things, especially at that young age, and reveled instead in the joy of the moment. As for the rest of that day, suffice it to say that Alexander rode again to that flowering valley with Hephaestion at his side – and that this time, once there, he did not stop. On that long, sunny day amid the bounty of the earth, they rode together onward, eastward.

(With their spirits so high, they felt like they could ride on forever – but, being the wonderful sons and responsible young men they were, they returned to the palace just in time for the feast. They arrived at the great hall squeaky clean and "properly" decked out, too, in fine, rich clothes that showed no hint of all the forestry they had crashed through in their explorations that afternoon. No one found anything in their appearance to complain about. Not even Queen Olympias.)

And of course, this was only the beginning!


End file.
